mixing rod tinkled in the thin crystal shells, and the man of mystery deftly thrust a clump of foliage into each. A well known fragrance exhaled upon the tobacco-thickened air. 

 "Shades of the Grail!" cried Bleak. "Mint julep!" 

 The visitor bowed and pushed the glasses forward. "With the compliments of the Corporation," he said. 

 The city editor sprang to his feet. Sagely cynical, he suspected a ruse. 

 "It's a plant!" he exclaimed. "Don't touch it! It's a trick on the part of the Department of Justice, trying to get us into trouble." 

 Bleak gazed angrily at the stranger. If this was indeed a federal stratagem, what an intolerably cruel one! In front of him the glasses sparkled alluringly: a delicate mist gathered on their ice-chilled curves: a pungent sweetness wavered in his nostrils. 

 "See here!" he blurted with shrill excitement. "Are you a damned government agent? If so, take your poison and get out." 

 The tall stranger in his impressive uniform stood erect and unabashed. With affectionate care he gave the tumblers a final musical stir. 

 "O ye of little faith!" he said calmly. The sadness of the misunderstood idealist grieved his features. "Have you forgotten the miracle of Cana?" From his pocket he took a card and laid it on the desk. 

 Bleak seized it. It said: 

 THE CORPORATION FOR THE PERPETUATION OF HAPPINESS 1316 Caraway Street Virgil Quimbleton, Associate Director 

 He stared at the pasteboard, stupefied, and handed it to the city editor. 

 Meanwhile the three reporters had drawn near. Light-hearted and irresponsible souls, unoppressed by the embittered suspicion of their superiors, they nosed the floating aroma with candid hilarity. 

 "The breath of Eden!" said one. 

 "It's a warm evening," remarked another, with seeming irrelevance. 

 The face of Virgil Quimbleton, the man in gray, relaxed again at these marks of honest appreciation. He waved an encouraging arm over the crystals. "With the compliments of the Corporation," he repeated. 

 

 Prev. P 4/67 next