There were three old-fashioned cloth-covered platform rockers, two wooden chairs with rounded arms of a type formerly classified as barroom chairs. In the wooden seats of these two chairs holes had been bored in the design of a star. There were no floor lights and apparently no wall outlets. Extension connections had been screwed in the sockets of a chandelier which hung in the center of the room. The result was a spider web of wires and several drop cord lights, shaded by conical sections of pasteboard, green on the outside, white on the inside.

  A small table in the center of the room was piled high with books, magazines and newspapers. There had been an overflow down on to the floor, and a pile around one of the platform rockers indicated the man seated there had read things and then disposed of them by simply dropping them on the floor.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Carlin invited. “I’ll be back with coffee in just a minute.”

  Carlin retired to the kitchen. Mason and Della Street looked around the room. Della smiled at Mason. “Problem, find the guy’s favorite chair.” She indicated the rocker around which the litter of books, magazines and papers had been scattered.

  Mason smiled, moved over to look at the books in the age-darkened mahogany bookcase. “By George, Della, some of this stuff is interesting. Our man does some real reading. And just take a look at these bindings.”

  “What about them?” Della Street asked. “Don’t try to lure me away from here, Chief. I’ve found a gas radiator and this warm air feels good.”

  Mason turned to look over his shoulder. Della Street was standing on an ornamental grating. The warm air which came drifting up from below was gently billowing her skirt, raising it a few inches, spreading it out.

  Mason laughed.

  “You’d have to wear a dress on a cold rainy night to know how good this feels,” she said. “What about the books?”

  “Various subjects,” Mason said, “but quite evidently they’re special editions of some sort with fine bindings, and …”

  Shuffling steps sounded from the direction of the kitchen and Carlin brought in a big tray on which was a huge granite coffeepot, some cups and saucers, a pint bottle of cream about half full, and a big cut-glass sugar bowl.

  He glanced somewhat hopelessly at the table.

  “Just a minute,” Della Street said. “Perhaps I can help.”

  She stacked the books and magazines. Carlin smiled his thanks, placed the tray on the table, started pouring coffee.

  The cups were of various patterns and showed evidence of hard usage.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the chips,” Carlin apologized whimsically, “but you will, of course, understand that the one without any handle is for the host And that’s the last apology I’ll make for the hospitality I have to offer. This is my bachelor home. Such as it is, you are welcome. Now let’s have coffee and get acquainted.”

  Mason stirred his coffee, glanced at Della Street, sipped the hot beverage and nodded approvingly. “You certainly do make good coffee!”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you enjoy it.”

  “You do all your own cooking?” Della Street asked, and then added hastily, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

  “Quite all right,” Carlin said. “I like to cook. My meal hours are irregular and my tastes are unorthodox. When I get hungry I go fix myself something to eat. When I’m not hungry I don’t eat One of the curses of our so-called civilization is that we are dominated by clocks. We have invented wheels that go around and our lives are dominated by the revolutions of those wheels.

  “Many and many a man who is overweight is a slave to the custom of having dinner at a certain time. He may not be hungry, but unless he wants to seem churlish he has to sit down at the table with his family or with his friends, and shovel in food.”

  Mason said, “You have some very interesting books.”

  Carlin’s face twisted into a lopsided smile. “Mr. Mason, let’s dispense with pretext and politeness. I know that you didn’t come here at this hour to talk about the weather or the coffee or my books. You’re curious. I’ll satisfy your curiosity. Then you can satisfy mine.

  “I’m a widower. I’ve been living here for five years. I have a small income which enables me to be relatively independent of economic worries, provided I watch my expenditures.

  “I’m something of a hobbyist. In the basement, I have a little printing shop and a small stock of very choice paper. From time to time when I find something in literature which I like, I set it in the type which appeals to me and print and bind it in very fine leather. From time to time when I find some book that I think is deserving, I remove the old binding and rebind that book in hand-tooled leather.

  “I’m something of a photographer. I have a dark room and a very good enlarging camera. I like to prowl around with a camera and take such pictures as appeal to me. Interesting bits of light and shadow. The various moods of nature. The morning sunlight filtering through an oak tree. The turmoil of a breaker as it hisses up on a sandy beach after a storm.

  “I think it is given to all men to appreciate beauty and while I’m willing to admit that my appreciation of art in my younger years was for more animate objects,” and Carlin smiled reminiscently, “I now have adopted a philosophic attitude and worship a more impersonal beauty.

  “And now, Mr. Mason, I’ve been frank with you.”

  Mason said, “I’m a lawyer. I’m trustee for the secrets of my clients. Many things I’d like to reveal, I can’t tell.”

  “I understand that,” Carlin said. “But let’s hear the things you can tell.”

  Mason said, “I’m going to tell you very frankly that I don’t know the identity of my client.”

  “The deuce you don’t!”

  “That’s right.”

  “And do you accept clients under such circumstances?”

  “Not as a rule. This case is different. I have a message for you.”

  “What is it?”

  Mason took the newspaper clipping from his pocket. “First of all, I was asked to show you this clipping.”

  Carlin arose from his chair, walked across the room, took the clipping from Mason’s hand, and said, “This means nothing to me. However, let’s see what we have here—Hmmmmmm— Well…. Seems to have to do with some young woman who was arrested for cutting corners.”

  “Do you know her?” Mason asked.

  “Good heavens, no!”

  “Or perhaps you at one time had something to do with—well, you’ll pardon me, Mr. Carlin, but perhaps at one time there was an attempt made to blackmail you?”

  “Definitely not. Perhaps, Mr. Mason, the message you were to deliver will clarify the situation.”

  “The message,” Mason said, “was that under the circumstances you would have to get another partner.”

  Carlin frowned. “Who gave you that message for me?”

  “Frankly, I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Either way you want to take it.”

  “The message is as it was given to you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “In writing?”

  “No.”

  “The words ‘under the circumstances’—what did they refer to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They were part of the message?”

  “Very definitely.”

  Carlin frowned thoughtfully, then, after a moment, shook his head. “Mr. Mason, I have no partners.”

  “Isn’t there perhaps some joint venture, some …?”

  Carlin interrupted. “Mr. Mason, I have no partners, no intimates, no associates.”

  Mason said, “Perhaps the message refers to some business deal, some …” He broke off as he saw expression suddenly flood into Carlin’s eyes. “There is a business deal?” Mason asked.

  Carlin waited for the space of a deep breath. “No.”

  Mason watched the man. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “that’s my errand.”

  “I see nothing particularly urgent about that,” Carlin told him.

  “Circumstances made it seem urgent to me,” Mason said.

  “What circumstances?”

  Mason smiled. “I told you I was a lawyer and, as such, trustee for my clients’ secrets.”

  “And a good trustee you are, too.”

  Mason said nothing.

  “Since you can’t or won’t tell me more, I’ll be forced to speculate.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Carlin, holding the cup without a handle in his stubby-fingered hand, said abruptly, “It may take me a little while, but I’ll come up with the answer.”

  “And then?” Mason asked.

  Carlin merely smiled.

  “Will you tell us the answer?” Della Street asked Carlin.

  “How do I know? I’ll have to find out what the answer is first.” He sipped more coffee from the cracked cup.

  Abruptly Carlin said, “The human mind is a wonderful instrument We would be able to solve many mysteries if only we would concentrate. We could solve the riddle of life and death if we’d really try, but we are afraid, Mr. Mason; we are terribly afraid. Our whole lives are ruled by fear.”

  “You mean of death?” Della Street asked, her glance at Mason showing she would try to draw Carlin out.

  “I mean fear of ourselves,” Carlin said. “Man is more afraid of himself than of anything that can possibly happen to him. He’s afraid to be alone with himself. He’s afraid to get to know himself. He’s afraid to search himself.”

  “I hadn’t noticed it,” Della Street said.

  Carlin regarded her speculatively. “When people get together for an evening, they bring out a deck of cards and start playing gin rummy, or canasta; or they turn on the radio; they watch television; or perhaps they dash out to a movie.”

  “Don’t you think all normal people crave companionship?” Della Street asked.

  “Yes. Only this is not a craving for companionship. It is man’s fear of being alone with himself. So people huddle together. The babble of voices drowns out thought.

  “However, I digress. Yet it was in an attempt to answer your question. I shall concentrate on certain pertinent matters pertaining to this message. In the end, if it really concerns me—which I doubt—I shall know the things you are not at liberty to divulge, Mr. Mason.”

  “You still feel the message has no significance for you?” Mason asked.

  “Yes. Actually I think your client has the wrong Carlin, Mr. Mason.”

  “No,” Mason said, “you were described to me. Your name, the address …”

  “Certainly,” Carlin interrupted. “I credit you with having made your part in the affair absolutely certain. The mistake is on the part of your client.”

  “In what way?”

  “Suppose your client had a message to be delivered to an individual by the name of Carlin. That client is not certain of the initials, but, let us say, uses the telephone directory, and perhaps due to some complicating factor, which you do not realize at the present time, gets the wrong Carlin. Therefore the mistake is, so to speak, passed on to you and…. Well, you are a very distinguished man and a delightful visitor, Mr. Mason. It has been an opportunity to spend an enjoyable half-hour, to meet you and talk with you. I am very much afraid your visit has been mutually unprofitable otherwise.” And Carlin gravely handed Mason back the newspaper clipping.

  Mason said, “I was hoping you could give me some information about …”

  “About your client?” Carlin asked, smiling, as Mason hesitated.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I gather your employment, if one might so describe the relationship of an attorney to a client, is something rather recent,” Carlin said. “Quite obviously you haven’t had an opportunity to talk with this client, therefore some message must have been delivered to you. On account of the lateness of the hour I assume the message was not delivered to your office. Because Miss Street is with you I assume that the message was not delivered after you had gone to your apartment. Therefore it was a message you must have received while at a late dinner at the Golden Goose, which is where you said you were when you telephoned.”

  Mason smiled. “You seem to enjoy deductive reasoning.”

  “I do,” Carlin said. “After all, man was given a mind. Why shouldn’t he use it? … However, I’m remiss in my duties as host. Do let me fill up these coffee cups.”

  He moved with alacrity, filling the coffee cups, passing the cream and sugar, then he sat down, adjusted his glasses on his nose. His face twisted into a whimsical smile.

  “Remarkable characters,” he said, “if you don’t mind my saying so. Your faces would photograph well. I don’t usually do portrait work. I like to express the things I see in terms of light and shadow. I like the long shadows of morning, the slanting of the sun’s rays in the afternoon, but occasionally I do a bit of portrait photography. I like to figure out how shadows and highlights can express the personality on a man’s countenance, how a trick of lighting can bring out the delicate feminine charm of a woman. I should like to photograph you sometime when the occasion presents itself, when it is—not so late.”

  Mason glanced at Della Street They sipped coffee. Mason said, “Well, we must be on our way. It’s quite late and …”

  “I could have bitten my tongue off after I’d said that,” Carlin said contritely. “I don’t know why a person so frequently says things which require explanation and then realizes that the explanation has a tendency to overemphasize the error.

  “The hour is not late for me. I was thinking only of you and—if you’ll pardon me, a photographer who doesn’t rely heavily on retouching, who likes to embody true character in his pictures, prefers to have his subjects fresh in the morning rather than catching them at the close of a long and arduous day.

  “Personally, Mr. Mason, I hate retouching. I feel that everything can be done with lights and shadows.”

  Mason glanced at his wrist watch. “Please don’t feel I was referring to your remark. It’s well after midnight. We must be on our way, otherwise we wouldn’t be fresh enough for a photograph in the morning, and …”

  “You mean you’ll come in the morning and give me an opportunity …?”

  Mason laughed. “It was just a generality. Perhaps some day, Mr. Carlin. Well, thank you very much for your hospitality. Some other time I’d like to discuss your philosophy of life at greater length and to look at some of your photographs.”

  “It would be a pleasure,” Carlin said, moving slightly forward in his chair as though waiting for them to arise.

  Mason got to his feet.

  “Thank you very much for coming,” Carlin said, and then smiling at Della Street, added, “Just when a man thinks he is entirely self-sufficient in a masculine world and has learned to appreciate the beauty in nature rather than in more animate forms, something happens to show him how wrong he is.”

  “Thank you,” she smiled, getting up from her chair and walking toward the hallway.

  “You would make an excellent photographic subject,” Carlin said hopefully. “I trust that before too long you and Mr. Mason will find time in your busy schedule to drop by. It won’t take more than—oh, shall we say half an hour? Fifteen minutes apiece will do the job very nicely. And you must see some of my photographs and look at my studio. But now I know it’s late and you doubtless have had a hard day. I realize that the life of a prominent and busy attorney is very exacting.”

  Carlin opened the front door. “Well, well, here’s good news! It’s breaking away. You can see the edges of clouds scudding across the heavens, and—look at that moonlight on the cloud. Notice that silvery sheen. It’s one of my trials and tribulations as a photographer that so far no lens and no film have been made fast enough really to photograph the spell of moonlight. However, we’re progressing very rapidly.

  “Of course, you understand that all of the commercial moonlight photographs are taken at very high speed in sunlight. The camera is pointed directly toward the sun and the lens stopped way down and the shutter speeded up. Sometime we’ll be able to get a true picture of the delicate charm of moonlight and not the harsh effects of sunlight.

  “However, I mustn’t keep you. It’s turning cold and I know you’re anxious to get started. Be careful. At this hour there are quite a few drunken drivers tearing through the intersections.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Mason promised.

  “And you will come back and let me … Well, I am not going to ask for a promise because I realize how difficult it is at times to keep promises, but the invitation is open and my name is listed in the telephone book as, of course, you know, since you called me. Good night, and it was a real pleasure to meet both of you.”

  Mason and Della Street said good night, thanked him for his hospitality, watched the door swing slowly shut, then groped their way through the dark, down the cement walk to the curb where Mason’s car was parked.

  “Well?” Mason asked.

  “He frightens me,” Della Street said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Womanly intuition?”

  “I guess so.”

  Della Street reached out before Mason could grasp the door handle, pulled the door open, jumped in with a quick swirl of skirts and a flash of leg. She pulled the door closed, said, “Let’s get away from here.”

  Mason walked around the car, climbed in behind the steering wheel, said, “Tell me more about the feminine intuition, Della.”

  “I think he’s frightened, too.”

  “You believe that our message meant something to him?”

  “I think it meant a great deal to him.”

  Mason started the motor, eased the car into motion and said, “He gave himself away just once.”

  “How? I didn’t notice it.”

  “When I handed him that clipping,” Mason said, “he didn’t more than glance at it before saying that it meant nothing to him. If he had been really trying to ascertain what was in the clipping he would have read it through before expressing himself. As it was he took it and said almost immediately that it meant nothing to him. However, if he was acting, you have to admit it was a marvelous job.”