I made myself comfortable and dozed and dreamed as

the train plunged through the dark. There was a wait,

with much shifting of cars, where we crossed the Wabash,

then we sped on. It grew warmer as we drew

southward, and the conductor was confident we should

reach Cincinnati on time. The through passengers about

me went to bed, and I was left sprawled out in my open

section, lurking on the shadowy frontier between the

known world and dreamland.

"We're running into Cincinnati-ten minutes late,"

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said the porter's voice; and in a moment I was in the

vestibule and out, hurrying to a hotel. At the St.

Botolph I ordered a carriage and broke all records

changing my clothes. The time-table informed me that

the Northern express left at half-past one. There was

no reason why I should not be safe at Glenarm House

by my usual breakfast hour if all went well. To avoid

loss of time in returning to the station I paid the hotel

charge and carried my bag away with me.

"Doctor Armstrong's residence? Yes, sir; I've already

taken one load there"

The carriage was soon climbing what seemed to be a

mountain to the heights above Cincinnati. To this day

I associate Ohio's most interesting city with a lonely

carriage ride that seemed to be chiefly uphill, through

a region that was as strange to me as a trackless jungle

in the wilds of Africa. And my heart began to perform

strange tattoos on my ribs I was going to the house

of a gentleman who did not know of my existence, to

see a girl who was his guest, to whom I had never, as

the conventions go, been presented. It did not seem

half so easy, now that I was well launched upon the adventure.

I stopped the cabman just as he was about to enter

an iron gateway whose posts bore two great lamps.

"That is all right, sir. I can drive right in."

"But you needn't," I said, jumping out. "Wait here."

Doctor Armstrong's residence was brilliantly lighted,

and the strains of a waltz stole across the lawn cheerily.

Several carriages swept past me as I followed the walk.

I was arriving at a fashionable hour-it was nearly

twelve-and just how to effect an entrance without being

thrown out as an interloper was a formidable problem,

now that I had reached the house. I must catch

my train home, and this left no margin for explanation

to an outraged host whose first impulse would very

likely be to turn me over to the police.

I made a detour and studied the house, seeking a

door by which I could enter without passing the unfriendly

Gibraltar of a host and hostess on guard to

welcome belated guests.

A long conservatory filled with tropical plants gave

me my opportunity. Promenaders went idly through

and out into another part of the house by an exit I

could not see. A handsome, spectacled gentleman

opened a glass door within a yard of where I stood,

sniffed the air, and said to his companion, as he turned

back with a shrug into the conservatory: "There's no sign of snow. It isn't Christmas weather

at all."




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