By
Frank
Owen
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TheLong Still Streets of Evening
Heading by A. R. Tilburne
Before ringing the doorbell of the great house on the Avenue, Ives Cranston gazed furtively about him. The street was almost deserted although the evening was still young. Gay automobiles hummed past and occasional buses lumbered down toward the Square. Across the street was Central Park like a peaceful green carpet spread out in the throbbing turmoil of the city.
Ives Cranston was fastidiously dressed, not flashily but in perfect taste. He was tall and rather good-looking. Handsome would be too strong a word but he was not unattractive.
Again he gazed furtively up and down the street. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Evidently he had arrived at some sort of a decision, for he rang the bell. It boomed out sonorously through the rooms as though searching for the dwellers hidden beyond those massive walls.
Almost immediately the door was opened by a Chinese servant who was attired in
