“No mistake—­this street is alive.  But what cemeteries they must have!”

He followed Carlo, with minute precautions, into the interior of the taxi.  And then came the supremely delicate operation—­that of introducing a third person into the same vehicle.  It was accomplished; three chins and six knees fraternized in close intimacy; but the door would not shut.  Wheezing, snorting, shaking, complaining, the taxi drew slowly away from Mr. Sachs’s luxurious automobile and left it forlorn to its chauffeur.  Mr. Sachs imperturbably smiled. ("I have two other automobiles,” said Mr. Sachs.) In some sixty seconds the taxi stopped in front of the tremendous glass awning of the Stuyvesant.  The baggage was unstrapped; the passengers were extracted one by one from the cell, and Edward Henry saw Mr. Sachs give two separate dollar bills to the driver.

“By Jove!” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Sachs, politely.

“Nothing!” said Edward Henry.

They walked into the hotel, and passed through a long succession of corridors and vast public rooms surging with well-dressed men and women.

“What’s all this crowd for?” asked Edward Henry.

“What crowd?” asked Mr. Sachs, surprised.

Edward Henry saw that he had blundered.

“I prefer the upper floors,” remarked Mr. Sachs as they were being flung upwards in a gilded elevator, and passing rapidly all numbers from 1 to 14.

The elevator made an end of Carlo Trent’s manhood.  He collapsed.  Mr. Sachs regarded him, and then said: 

“I think I’ll get an extra room for Mr. Trent.  He ought to go to bed.”

Edward Henry enthusiastically concurred.

“And stay there!” said Edward Henry.

Pale Carlo Trent permitted himself to be put to bed.  But, therein, he proved fractious.  He was anxious about his linen.  Mr. Sachs telephoned from the bedside, and a laundry-maid came.  He was anxious about his best lounge-suit.  Mr. Sachs telephoned, and a valet came.  Then he wanted a siphon of soda-water, and Mr. Sachs telephoned, and a waiter came.  Then it was a newspaper he required.  Mr. Sachs telephoned and a page came.  All these functionaries, together with two reporters, peopled Mr. Trent’s bedroom more or less simultaneously.  It was Edward Henry’s bright notion to add to them a doctor—­a doctor whom Mr. Sachs knew, a doctor who would perceive at once that bed was the only proper place for Carlo Trent.

“Now,” said Edward Henry, when he and Mr. Sachs were participating in a private lunch amid the splendours and the grim, silent service of the latter’s suite at the Stuyvesant, “I have fully grasped the fact that I am in New York.  It is one o’clock and after, and as soon as ever this meal is over I have just got to find Isabel Joy.  You must understand that on this trip New York for me is merely a town where Isabel Joy happens to be.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Sachs, “I reckon I can put you on to that. She’s going to be photographed at two o’clock by Rentoul Smiles.  I happen to know because Rent’s a particular friend of mine.”