I stepped into the coach, and Indiman after me. There was a sound of angry voices from the hall above; two or three men dashed down the stairway, others following.
"Drive on!" shouted Indiman, and the carriage started. Then we both turned and looked blankly at that empty back seat.
Indiman bit his lip. "It is an old trick—leaving by the other door," he said, quietly. "It was while we were lighting our cigarettes; and that reminds me that I have decided to give up the habit." He tossed his cigarette out of the window; the coach rolled away.
Private business called me to Washington the next day, and I had to take the night train back, arriving in New York at the uncomfortably early hour of seven. But it was some small satisfaction to rap vigorously upon Indiman's door as I passed to my own room. One always experiences a sense of virtue in being up at unseasonable hours, and blessings should be shared with one's friends. Later on we met at breakfast, and he did not thank me.
The following paragraph in the "Personal" column of the HERALD caught my eye. "Listen to this," I said, and read it aloud to my sulky host:
"'To Mademoiselle D.,—There are ninety-and-nine kisses still due me, and I propose to collect. Box 90, Herald office (up-town), or telephone 18,901 Madison Square. (Private wire.) "'HOUSE-SMITH.'"
Esper Indiman smiled and touched an electric button. "The letters, Bolder," he said, but the man had anticipated his request, and was carrying in a salver heaped high with missives and papers.
"I had the personal put in the HERALD the same night of our adventure at the House-smiths' bazaar," said Indiman. "Also repeated in to-day's issue."
"It seems to be bearing a fine crop of replies."
"There's a bushel-basket of 'em already—mostly from the alleged humorist. Or else it's this sort of thing," and he tossed over an extraordinary piece of stationery—white cream-laid, with edging like a mourning band, only pink instead of black; think of that!