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American Sunday Monthly Magazine Section It was the following morning that Mr. Norton, the news paper reporter, invited Emmy and her mother to inspect his studio. He came in to breakfast very late, and seemed strangely nervous and out of sorts. Emmy also was break, fasting late; with the exception of her mother, they had the dining-room to themselves. Air. Norton swallowed two huge cups of coffee, played with an egg, and crumbled a piece of toast to shreds without eating a morsel. Then he jerked out his cigarette-case, rose impatiently and sug gested that they come and see his rooms. Mrs. Moran said nothing, but glanced at Emmy. Emmy said “Yes,” and followed Mr. Norton up the stairs. In a moment he was ushering them into his studio. The place looked as though it had never been put in order since the beginning of time. The walls were literally plastered with lithographs, posters, and sketches in black and white and color, many of them originals. The floor, except the central portion of it, was heaped with similar sketches, books, newspapers, magazines and clothes in a confused and impossibly inextricable mass. Photographs of every conceivable subject, from aeroplane ascensions to musical comedy choruses, were stacked about, on the marble mantel, on the table, along the walls. A typewriter stood near the bed, on a chair. Beside it, on the floor, lay a pile of manuscript. A broken revolver, souvenir of a sensational mur der case, hung from the chandelier along with a pink satin slipper and a mum mified Indian head from New Mexico, its long, black hair serving as a means of suspension. On the mantel stood a nearly empty whisky bottle and several empty beer bottles, which spoke eloquently to Em my of the noisy party which had disturbed her slum bers in the small hours of the morn ing. Norton lit his cigarette and began to inhale it in huge puffs. The girl gazed about the room with interest. Here, she felt, was the be ginning of all things for her. It was an intuition she could not explain, even to herself. Her mother looked mild disapproval. The place outraged her inherent sense of order. Mr. Norton was a gay little fellow, somewhat below medium height, with much brown, wavy hair which seemed in imminent danger of falling into his bright, roving eyes. His mouth was large and humor ous, his manner quick and nervous. He bounced about the room like a flea, seemingly unable to remain quiet for a moment. As he carefully ex plained to Mrs. Moran, he had “the jumps,” which, he informed her, resulted from too many highballs the night before. “It’s a choice of two evils,” he laughed, gaily. “If I don’t drink I feel like a fool if I do, I act like one.” He hopped over to the table and began to show Emmy the pictures. The girl felt herself in a new world. She, who had so often spent a whole morning absorbed in the con tents of some New York Sunday paper, now found herself in the sanctum, so to speak, of one of those enviable beings who created them. “What do you write mostly, Air. Norton? she asked, in tones of deep respect. “I do all the big murder trials. Aou may have read the stories of the Leland case in the Courier this week. I wrote them. Say, that Leland girl is a wonder. I’ve got to know her pretty well this past month and I must say she’s got any woman I e\ er saw beat to a pulp for nerve.” Through Emmy's mind flashed the tale of a }oung girl accused of murdering her elderly husband of a year to get possession of his large property. I he sensational newspapers had been filled with her pic- ***** tures in every conceivable attitude, with stories of her past, her beauty, her youth, her talents, her likes and dislikes, the cost of her hats, the kind of flowers she preferred, her pet poodle, her clothes, and the way she wore her hair. “ She must be a horrid creature,” Emmy observed, with the innate jealousy of one beautiful woman for another. “Not on your life! She’s a wonder. Alost beau tiful eyes I've ever seen. Coarse work, though, giv ing the old guy rat poison. Very coarse.” He took up a portrait of the woman from the table and handed it to Emmy. “Just look at her eyes. Aren’t they wonderful?” Emmy handed the picture back after examining it carefully, without comment. As Norton replaced “You’re solid,” he said, appreciatively, “right weight and age, and a bear for looks” it on the table an other photograph fell to the floor. The girl caught it as it fell. It repre sented a young man of perhaps thirty-two years of age, with a strong, earnest face, handsome features and a whimsical smile. She glanced at Air. Norton, questioningly, as she returned the picture to him. “Oh, that’s Chanler,” he said, glancing down at it. “Grant Chanler. Short-story writer—novelist —maybe you know his stuff?” “No,” Emmy replied. “I don’t remember ever having read any of it.” “He writes quite a lot—for the Universal and the Post, mostly. Published ‘The Polygamist’ last year—strong novel, too—but didn’t sell. Too strong, I guess. Great friend of mine. I’ll intro duce him to you sometime.” “Thank you. I’d like to meet him.” “How long do you expect to be in New York?” Norton inquired as he dumped the contents of two chairs on the floor to provide his guests with seats. He himself sat on the edge of the table, smoking his cigarette as though life itself depended upon it. (Continued on page 12)