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〃If you were a gentleman；〃 he said； 〃you would have no difficulty
in understanding these things。 I have just done you the honor of
challenging you to a duel。〃
Mr。 Wharton's mouth opened as if he were about to explode in a
roar of incredulous laughter。 But meeting Cleggett's eyes； which
were； indeed； sparkling with a most remarkable light； his jaw
dropped； and he turned slightly pale。 He rose from his chair and
put the desk between himself and Cleggett； picking up as he did
so a long pair of shears。
〃Put down the scissors；〃 said Cleggett； with a wave of his hand。
〃I do not propose to attack you now。〃
And he turned and left the managing editor's little office；
closing the door behind him。
The managing editor tiptoed over to the door and； with the
scissors still grasped in one hand； opened it about a quarter of
an inch。 Through this crack Wharton saw Cleggett walk jauntily
towards the corner where his hat and coat were hanging。 Cleggett
took off his worn office jacket； rolled it into a ball； and flung
it into a waste paper basket。 He put on his street coat and hat
and picked up the drab…colored cane。 Swinging the stick he moved
towards the door into the hall。 In the doorway he paused； cocked
his hat a trifle； turned towards the managing editor's door；
raised his hand with his pipe in it with the manner of one who
points a dueling pistol； took careful aim at the second button of
the managing editor's waistcoat； and clucked。 At the cluck the
managing editor drew back hastily； as if Cleggett had actually
presented a firearm； Cleggett's manner was so rapt and fatal that
it carried conviction。 Then Cleggett laughed； cocked his hat on
the other side of his head and went out into the corridor
whistling。 Whistling； and； since faults as well as virtues must
be told； swaggering just a little。
When the managing editor had heard the elevator come up； pause；
and go down again； he went out of his room and said to the city
editor：
〃Mr。 Herbert； don't ever let that man Cleggett into this office
again。 He is offoff mentally。 He's a dangerous man。 He's a
homicidal maniac。 More'n likely he's been a quiet； steady drinker
for years； and now it's begun to show on him。〃
But nothing was further from Cleggett than the wish ever to go
into the Enterprise office again。 As he left the elevator on the
ground floor he stabbed the astonished elevator boy under the
left arm with his cane as a bayonet； cut him harmlessly over the
head with his cane as a saber； tossed him a dollar； and left the
building humming：
〃Oh； the Beau Sabreur of the Grande Armee
Was the Captain Tarjeanterre！〃
It is thus； with a single twitch of her playful fingers； that
Fate will sometimes pluck from a man the mask that has obscured
his real identity for many years。 It is thus that Destiny will
suddenly draw a bright blade from a rusty scabbard！
CHAPTER II
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'sit'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。 He had first known McCarthy years before when
he was a reporter； and more recently had renewed the acquaintance
in his walks across the bridge。
〃I didn't know you were there； McCarthy；〃 he said。
〃No？〃 said the officer。 〃And who were ye jabbin' at； thin？〃
〃I was just limbering up my wrist；〃 said Cleggett。
〃'Tis a quare thing to do；〃 persisted McCarthy； albeit
good…humoredly。 〃And now I mind I've seen ye do the same before；
Mr。 Cleggett。 You're foriver grinnin' to yersilf an' makin' thim
funny jabs at nothin' as ye cross the bridge。 Are ye subjict to
stiffness in the wrists； Mr。 Cleggett？〃
〃Perhaps it's writer's cramp；〃 said Cleggett； indulging the
pleasant humor that was on him。 He was really thinking that； with
500；000 of his own； he had written his last headline； edited his
last piece of copy； sharpened his last pencil。
〃Writer's cramp？ Is it so？〃 mused McCarthy。 〃Newspapers is great
things； ain't they now？ And so's writin' and readin'。 Gr…r…reat
things！ But if ye'll take my advise； Mr。 Cleggett； ye'll kape
that writin' and readin' within bounds。 Too much av thim rots
the brains。〃
〃I'll remember that；〃 said Cleggett。 And he playfully jabbed the
officer again as he turned away。
〃G'wan wid ye！〃 protested McCarthy。 〃Ye're soused！ The scent av
it's in the air。 If I'm compilled to run yez in f'r assaultin'
an officer ye'll get the cramps out av thim wrists breakin'
stone； maybe。 Cr…r…r…amps； indade！〃
Cramps； indeed！ Oh； Clement J。 Cleggett； you liar！ And yet； who
does not lie in order to veil his inmost； sweetest thoughts from
an unsympathetic world？
That was not an ordinary jab with an ordinary cane which Cleggett
had directed towards the toolhouse door。 It was a thrust en
carte； the thrust of a brilliant swordsman； the thrust of a
master； a terrible thrust。 It was meant for as pernicious a
bravo as ever infested the pages of romantic fiction。 Cleggett
had been slaying these gentry a dozen times a day for years。 He
had pinked four of them on the way across the bridge； before
McCarthy； with his stomach and his realism； stopped the lunge
intended for the fifth。 But this is not exactly the sort of
thing one finds it easy to confide to a policeman； be he ever so
friendly a policeman。
CleggettOld Clegg； the copyreaderClegg； the commonplaceC。
J。 Cleggett； the Brooklynite…this person whom young reporters
conceived of as the staid； dry prophet of the dusty Factwas
secretly a mighty reservoir of unwritten； unacted； unlived；
unspoken romance。 He ate it； he drank it； he breathed it； he
dreamed it。 The usual copyreader； when he cl