The Sign at Six

Percy Darrow, a young man of scientific training, indolent manners, effeminate appearance, hidden energy, and absolute courage, lounged through the doors of the Atlas Building. Since his rescue from the volcanic island that had witnessed the piratical murder of his oldemployer, Doctor Schermerhorn, the spectacular dissolution of the murderers, and his ownimprisonment in a cave beneath the very roar of an eruption, he had been nursing hisshattered nerves back to their normal strength. Now he felt that at last he was able to go towork again. Therefore, he was about to approach a man of influence among practicalscientists, from whom he hoped further occupation. As the express elevator shot upward, he passed a long slender hand across his eyes. Therapid motion confused him still. The car stopped, and the metallic gates clanged open. Darrow obediently stepped forth. Only when the elevator had disappeared did his upwardglance bring to him the knowledge that he had disembarked one floor too soon. Darrow's eye fell on a lettered sign outside the nearest door. He smiled a slow red-lippedsmile beneath his small silky mustache, drooped his black eyelashes in a flicker ofreminiscence, hesitated a moment, then stepped languidly forward and opened the door. The sign indicated the headquarters of the very modest commissionership behind whichMcCarthy chose to work. McCarthy, quite simply, at that time owned New York. As Darrow entered, McCarthy hung up the telephone receiver with a smash, and sat glaringat the instrument. After a moment he turned his small bright eyes toward the newcomer."Hello, Perc," he growled. "Didn't see you. Say, I'm so mad my skin cracks. Just now somemeasly little shrimp called me up from a public booth. What ye suppose he wanted, now?Oh, nothin'! Just told me in so many words for me to pack up my little trunk and sail forEurope and never come back! That's all! He give me until Sunday, too." McCarthy barkedout a short laugh, and reached for the cigar box, which he held out to Darrow