The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 6 - September 1920)

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The limousine drew up beside the curb. A correctly garbed chauffeur leaped from his seat, opened the door, and stood stiffly at attention as J. Sylvester Jones stepped out. Jones was garbed in a manner that should have made the lilies of the field blush with shame at their shabbiness. From thirty-dollar hat to forty-dollar shoes he was impeccable.

“You may wait, Hawker,” he said, in a tone that meant, “Hawker, I graciously give you permission to continue living.”

He separated a key from the others on his ring, and languidly ascended the steps of Strickland Guerney’s ornate house. It was coming on to dusk, and the great hall was almost dark. Jones switched on the light and looked about curiously.

“Bradley,” he called.

A round shouldered, misty eyed little butler came pattering from somewhere in the rear of the house.

“I am astonished at this carelessness, Bradley,” reproved Jones. “Where are the servants?”

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