THE ROOM OF ILLUSION That part of Brooklyn in which Cleggett lived overlooks a wide sweep of water where the East River merges with New York Bay.

From his windows he could gaze out upon the bustling harbor craft and see the ships going forth to the great mysterious sea.
He walked home across the Brooklyn Bridge, and as he walked he still hummed tunes.

Occasionally, still with the rapt and fatal manner which had daunted the managing editor, he would pause and flex his wrist, and then suddenly deliver a ferocious thrust with his walking-stick.
The fifth of these lunges had an unexpected result.

Cleggett directed it toward the door of an unpainted toolhouse, a temporary structure near one of the immense stone pillars from which the bridge is swung.
But, as he lunged, the toolhouse door opened, and a policeman, who was coming out wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, received a jab in the pit of a somewhat protuberant stomach.
The officer grunted and stepped backward; then he came on, raising his night-stick.
"Why, it's--it's McCarthy!" exclaimed Cleggett, who had also sprung back, as the light fell on the other's face.
"Mr.Cleggett, by the powers!" said the officer, pausing and lowering his lifted club.

"Are ye soused, man?
Or is it your way of sayin' good avenin' to your frinds ?" Cleggett smiled.