This was quite the most insane freak in which he had indulged himself
these many years; and frankly admitting this much, he was rather
pleased than otherwise. He was bound to call on Mr. Bailey Penfield
and inform that gentleman where he might find his hat. Incidentally he
hoped to surprise something or other informing with regard to the
fortunes of Miss Lessing subsequent to her impulsive flight by
taxicab.
All of which, he calmly admitted, constituted an inexcusable
impertinence: he deserved a thoroughgoing snubbing, and rather
anticipated one, especially if destined to find Mr. Penfield at home
or, by some vagary of chance, to encounter Miss Lessing again.
But he smiled cheerfully in contemplation of this prospect, buoyed up
with a belief that his unconsciously idiotic behaviour was
intrinsically more or less Quixotic, and further excited by the hope
that he might possibly be permitted to serve his lady of mystery.
At all events, he meant to know more about Mr. Bailey Penfield before
he slept.
Alighting at Sixth Avenue, he walked to Forty-fifth Street, turned off
to the right, and in another moment was at a standstill, in the
extremest perplexity, before Number 97.
By every normal indication, the house was closed and tenantless. From
roof to basement its every window was blind with shades close-drawn.
The front doors were closed, the basement grating likewise.
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