Dust and wind had subsided¹, there seemed to be a hint of rain in the starless west.

Because the August evening had become oppressive, the club windows stood wide open as though gaping² for the outer air. Rugs and curtains had been removed; an incandescent³ light or two accentuated⁴ the emptiness of the rooms; here and there shadowy servants prowled, gilt⁵ buttons sparkling through the obscurity, their footsteps on the bare floor intensifying⁶ the heavy quiet.

Into this week’s-end void wandered young Shannon, drifting aimlessly from library to corridor, finally entering the long room where the portraits of dead governors smirked⁷ through the windows at the deserted⁸ avenue.

As his steps echoed on the rugless floor, a shadowy something detached itself from the depths of a padded armchair by the corner window, and a voice he recognized greeted him by name.

“You here, Harrod!” he exclaimed. “Thought you were at Bar Harbor.”

“I was. I had business in town.”

“Do you stay here long?”

“Not long,” said Harrod slowly.

Shannon dropped into a chair with a yawn which ended in a groan⁹.

“Of all God-forsaken places,” he began, “a New York club in August.”

Harrod touched an electric button, but no servant answered the call; and presently Shannon, sprawling¹⁰ in his chair, jabbed the button with the ferrule of his walking stick, and a servant took the order, repeating as though he had not understood: “Did you say two, sir?”

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