Outside the door the horses pranced, champing a little at the bit, and
turning their shining, arching necks in the sun. Other carriages drove
up and drove away. Rich toilets alighted and mounted the red-brown
steps--hats that rose, tier on tier, riotous parterres of flowers and
feathers and fruit, close little bonnets that proclaimed their elegance
by velvet knot or subtle curve of brim and crown. Colours flashed,
ribbon-ends fluttered, delicately shod feet scorned the pavement. It was
the Halcyon Club of the North Side, assembling to listen to Professor
Addison Trent, the great epigraphist, who was to discourse to them on
the inscriptions of Cnossus, the buried town of Crete. The feathers and
flowers and boas were only surface deep. Beneath them beat an intense
desire to know about epigraphy--all about it. The laughing faces and
daintily shod feet were set firmly in the way of culture. They swept
through the wide doors, up the long carved staircase--from the Caracci
Palace in Florence--into the wide library, with its arched ceiling and
high-shelved books and glimpses of busts and pedestals. They fluttered
in soft gloom, and sank into rows of adjustable chairs and faced sternly
a little platform at the end of the room. The air of culture descended
gratefully about them; they buzzed a little in its dim warmth and
settled back to await the arrival of the great epigraphist.
The great epigraphist was, at this moment, three hundred and sixty-three
and one-half miles--to be precise--out from New York. He was sitting
in a steamer-chair, his feet stretched comfortably before him, a
steamer-rug wrapped about his ample form, a grey cap pulled over his
eyes--dozing in the sun. Suddenly he sat erect. The rug fell from his
person, the visor shot up from his eyes. He turned them blankly toward
the shoreless West. This was the moment at which he had instructed his
subconscious self to remind him of an engagement to lecture on Cretan
inscriptions at the home of Mrs. Philip Harris on the Lake Shore Drive,
Chicago, Illinois. He looked again at the shoreless West and tried to
grasp it. It may have been his subconscious self that reminded him--it
may have been the telepathic waves that travelled toward him out of the
half-gloom of the library. They were fifty strong, and they travelled
with great intensity--“Had any one seen him--?” “Where was he?” “What
was wrong?” “Late!” “_Very_ late!” “Such a punctual man!” The waves
fluttered and spread and grew. The president of the club looked at the
hostess. The hostess looked at the president. They consulted and drew
apart. The president rose to speak, clearing her throat for a pained
look. Then she waited.... The hostess was approaching again, a fine
resolution in her face. They conferred, looking doubtfully at the
door. The president nodded courageously and seated herself again on the
platform, while Mrs. Philip Harris passed slowly from the room, the eyes
of the assembled company following her with a little look of curiosity
and dawning hope.