The match burned his fingers and he dropped it, watching the last red spark die out in the darkness.
Something about the shadowy hallway seemed unfamiliar; he went to the door, stepped out on the stoop, and looked up at the number on the transom.

It was thirty-eight; no doubt about the house.

Hesitating, he glanced around to see that his hansom was still there.

It had disappeared.
"What an idiot that cabman is!" he exclaimed, intensely annoyed at the prospect of lugging his heavy suit case to a Madison Avenue car and traveling with it to Harlem.
He looked up and down the dimly lighted street; east, an electric car glided down Madison Avenue; west, the lights of Fifth Avenue glimmered against the dark foliage of the Park.

He stood a moment, angry at the desertion of his cabman, then turned and reentered the dark hall, closing the door behind him.
Up the staircase he felt his way to the first landing, and, lighting a match, looked for the electric button.
"Am I crazy, or was there no electric button in this hall ?" he thought.
The match burned low; he had to drop it.