I am seated in my room at a hotel in the city of New York. The
proprietor told me that there is a large closet between my room and
Sandy’s which was reserved and locked by the former occupant of these
rooms. I dislike privacy within my own privacy.
Sandy went out early in the evening to get the necessary ingredients
for the making of his sangaree, as I told him that I should like to
have a fresh quantity on hand. He returned about two hours since and
made me about a gallon of the mixture. After I drank a glass, I told
him that I felt better, and that he might go out to see the sights of
this great city. Sandy is always reluctant to leave me alone. I am
sorry now that I allowed him to go out, for I have a prescience that an
unusual coma is about to fall upon me. But why worry about the unknown?
Where death is, said a philosopher, we are not. And where we are, death
is not.
I arose and thought that I ought to lie down in an attempt to sleep,
when I thought that I heard a knock upon a door. Oddly enough, it was
not upon my outer chamber door, but upon the closet door within. Surely
I was mistaken.
I removed my dressing gown and stretched myself upon the bed. To
convince myself, I arose and went to the inner closet door, but as I
took hold of the handle, I stopped.
“What a superstitious wretch you are,” I uttered unconsciously aloud
to myself, “get to bed. For how could a human being be knocking at an
inner closet door?”
With this I was consoled, yet I shuddered, and drank another glass of
sangaree.
My God, the noise was repeated again!
I was in this awful predicament when a clearer knock at my outer
door brought me to my senses. Although relieved at hearing a human
sound, I was much embarrassed at my condition, as I had on an oriental
costume which I wear for comfort when shut within my chambers. While I
hesitated, another sharp knock came at the outer door, and in another
second, I heard a scratch in the key-hole. Unfortunately I had not shot
the bolt on the inside, so rather than have the intruder open the door
for himself, I sprang forward and swung open the door. There stood a
man. He was flurried and out of breath, but apparently a gentleman of
culture. He carried a valise.
I was angry and beside myself with nervousness, and determined to be
abrupt with him.
“Be good enough to pardon me for disturbing you,” he said, “for I know
how angry I would be if a similar interruption should occur to me. I
shall only bother you for a moment. I was the last occupant of these
rooms, and the proprietor of this hotel allowed me to reserve the large
closet until such a time as I might be able to carry away its contents.”
“Yes, so he told me,” I answered, sharply, “but you come at a late hour
to remove your effects and will arouse the other guests who may retire
earlier than I am accustomed to do.”
“To say the whole truth,” he replied, “I did not come to remove my
effects. I came to look upon your face. Now I am at my ease. I will
leave without bothering you, and I shall remain away until you give up
these apartments.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, bluntly, as I thought the man insinuated
that I would have pried into his effects if he had not seen me.
“I mean that I take you for a gentleman,” he said, “a gentleman without
the curiosity of Bluebeard’s wives.”
His frankness at once unarmed me and amused me.
“You are quite out of breath;” I remarked.
“Yes,” he said, “I have walked up the seven flights of stairs.”
“What, are not the elevators running?” I asked, worrying about Sandy’s
return.
“Oh, yes, but they make me dizzy. I--I--I rarely use them.”
The man’s hesitation shot a fiendish idea into my brain. There are
two classes of men who interest me particularly, one type is composed
of those who are taciturn about their mysterious selves, and the
other kind who conceal mystery under a glib and suave exterior. My
visitor being of the latter class, this fiendish intention came into
my brain: suppose you dose him with your sangaree until he reveals his
mystery, and you can read his naked soul. Besides this, the man had
a fascinating face and figure. He was about fifty years of age, his
hair streaked with grey, his eyes outwardly plausible but inwardly
leering, his mouth told of an exceedingly sensuous nature. His features
and his body stood out like a mask, covering an actual self within,
totally different from his considerate, gentlemanly exterior. I want to
scratch that thin veneer of civilization, and get a look at this urbane
creature.
“I fear that you mistook my abruptness for rudeness,” I said, “sit
down, won’t you? Rest a few minutes until you recover your breath.
I fear you have no conception of how hard stair-climbing is on the
heart.”
“I have been used to it for years,” he replied, about to depart, “for
eighteen years I climbed the pyramids of Egypt.”
“What a coincidence,” I answered, “I myself am a student of the East.
I even adopt their dress within doors, as you see. Did you ever work
about the vicinity of Memphis? Come in and sit a moment, for you are
in no condition to strain yourself any more for a while. My servant is
out, or I would offer you refreshment.”
I opened the door wide. He hesitated, but after brushing off a cloud of
suspicion arising from my change of manner, he entered, set down his
valise, and looked at me as I closed the door.
“When you spoke of Memphis,” said he, “well, I can only say that I was
taken aback! Memphis was the site of most of my work.”
“You were surprised no more than I when you spoke of the pyramids,” I
replied, “pardon me, but will you excuse me if I take a glass of a mild
beverage which I keep on hand? I would gladly offer you some, but I
fear you would not care for it, and I am sorry that I have nothing else
to give you, and that my servant is out.”
“What is your beverage? I have tasted every liquor from vodka to white
whiskey.”
“Oh, mine is a very mild concoction. It is only sangaree.”
“Sangaree? Why, I was raised on sangaree.”
“I am glad that I can now be hospitable. Excuse me while I fill the
caraffe.”
I went into Sandy’s room, drew a pitcher of his strong stock solution,
and returned to find my visitor reading one of the books on my table.
“A most exhaustive work upon marriage,” he said, running over its
pages, “I finished it myself last spring. The Germans are the only
thorough scholars we have, and this book by Westermark will remain a
standard work.”
These matter-of-course remarks of his did not interest me, so I made
no reply, and merely filled two goblets with the sangaree, offering
him one. He raised the glass to his lips like one accustomed to heavy
draughts, emptied half of it, looked at the liquor, looked at me,
looked at the liquor again, set it down, and said nothing. I refilled
it before taking my seat. Thinking that I was not observing him, he
scrutinized me again, once more looked at the liquor, saw me empty my
glass, rubbed his nose, and then emptied his again. For a time, we sat
in silence.
“Do you want to know what Westermark taught me, though he contradicts
it himself?”