Then he opened the ink-well, picked up a pen, and began.
For half an hour he sat there, now refreshed and keenly absorbed in his work.

Once the stairs outside creaked, and he raised his head, listening absently, then returned to the task before him with a sigh.
All his windows were open; the warm night air was saturated with the odour of Bermuda lilies.

Once or twice he laid down his pen and stared out into the darkness as a subtler perfume grew on the breeze--the far fragrance of china-berry in bloom; Calypso's breath! Then, in the silence, the heavy throb of his heart unnerved his hand, rendering his pen unsteady as he signed each rendered bill: "O.K.

for $----," and affixed his signature, "John Garret Hamil, Architect." The aroma of the lilies hung heavy in the room, penetrating as the scent of Malcourt's spiced Chinese gums afire and bubbling.

And he thought again of Malcourt's nineteen little josses which he lugged about with him everywhere from some occult whim, and in whose gilt-bronze laps he sometimes burned cigarettes, sometimes a tiny globule of aromatic gum, pretending it propitiated the malice-brooding gods.
And, thinking of Malcourt, suddenly he remembered the door-key.