Arthur stepped back on the stone landing and looked up. A round spark,
as from a cigarette, was visible at the open window. While he gazed the
spark glowered brighter and illumined a pale, haggard boy's face,
surmounted by tousled locks of brick colored hair.

"Hi, there!" said Arthur. "Does Mr. Fogerty live here?"

"He pays the rent," answered a boyish voice, with a tinge of irony.
"What's wanted?" "Mr. Fogerty is wanted. Is he at home?"

"He is," responded the boy.

"I must see him at once--on important business. Wake him up, my lad;
will you?"

"Wait a minute," said the youth, and left the window. Presently he
opened the front door, slipped gently out and closed the door behind
him.

"Let's sit in your car," he said, in soft, quiet tones. "We can talk
more freely there."

"But I must see Fogerty at once!" protested Arthur.

"I'm Fogerty."

"Q. Fogerty?"

"Quintus Fogerty--the first and last and only individual of that name."