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Updated: June 15, 2025
Well, it is exactly a year and a day since that eventful afternoon when Esper Indiman's visiting-card was thrust into my unconscious hand. I have travelled along some strange ways in the course of that twelvemonth, and henceforth I shall be content to trudge along the common high-road of life. The gates of chance for me they are closed forever.
I looked at my watch; it was ten minutes after seven, and that gave me a quarter of an hour in which to think it over. Should I accept Mr. Indiman's invitation to call? I looked around for an ash-tray, and, seeing one on the big writing-table in the centre of the room, I walked over to it. There were some bits of white lying in the otherwise empty tray the fragments of a torn-up visiting-card.
Indiman's lordly pleasure no longer. I rose to go; the electric bell sounded. I could hear Jeckley's high-pitched voice distinctly; he seemed to be put out about something; he spoke impatiently, even angrily. "But this is 4020 Madison Avenue, isn't it? Mr. Indiman I was asked to call Mr. Jeckley, of the Planet." "Must be some mistake, sir," came the answer. "This is No. 4020, but there's no Mr.
On it was pasted a strip of the tape used in electric-recording instruments, and the characters were those of the Morse alphabet, rather an unusual sight nowadays, when receiving messages by sound is the universal practice. Underneath the row of dots and dashes had been written their English equivalents in Indiman's small, close handwriting.
The message once in his hand he did not seem to concern himself overmuch with its possible import; presently the envelope fell from his inert fingers and fluttered down at Indiman's feet. The latter picked it up and handed it to the young man, who thanked him in a voice barely audible. "The man is waiting to see if there is any answer," suggested Indiman, quietly. Mr.
Then he caught the glimmer of the gold piece in Indiman's fingers, and grabbed at it eagerly. It is a poor sort of catastrophe that does not attract the attention of at least one pair of youthful eyes, and the vultures are famous for their punctuality in the matter of invitations to dinner.
Well, we went and had our dinner, but, as you shall see, the trolley-ride had to be indefinitely postponed. We had started down Fifth Avenue, and near Madison Square we ran squarely into Indiman's cousin, George Estes. He was standing near a brilliantly illumined shop-window, and gazing intently at a small object that lay in the hollow of his hand. "Oh, it's you," he said, absently.
Push-carts are not allowed in Madison Avenue, anyway, and five minutes earlier or later he would have been moved on by the policeman on the beat. But in that mean time Esper Indiman and I had left the house. The cart piled high with red and yellow apples confronted us, and a dangerous glint came into Indiman's eye. "Indiman!" I implored. Too late!
Tell you what, old man; come along with me and see the thing to a finish. Fate leads a card Mr. Esper Indiman's and we'll play the second hand; what do you say?" I declined firmly. God forbid that I should be featured, along with the other exhibits in the case, on the first page of to-morrow's Planet. "So," he assented, indifferently, and pushed his chair back.
I give you, therefore, the third appearance of the Queen of Spades. Au revoir! We sail to-morrow by the Cunarder." The man with the disproportionate ears touched Indiman's elbow. "Beg pardon, sir," he said, deferentially, "but I shall have to have a word or two with you." We drove to the Utinam Club and found a secluded corner. "Now, what is it, officer?" said Indiman.
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