one another. Then abruptly the stranger rose, and crossing the room, he seated himself at the table opposite the young man.
"Since you have invited me," said he, "I have come. After all, there is much to be commended in companionship. My name is Randall Crane."
"And mine," was the reply, "is Hugh Bannerton."
Hugh did not deny the invitation, despite the fact that he had not given one. Nor did he hesitate for a moment to tell his name. He had felt the implied question, although Randall Crane had asked nothing. But what was stranger still, although as a rule lie was one of the most unapproachable of men, he did not resent the intrusion.
"You appear," remarked Randall Crane, "to be distinctly out of sorts, or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say, out of focus."
"I am disgusted with life," replied Hugh petulantly. "I'm sick of realities. I'm pining for adventure. By profession I am a detective. It is my lot in life to be continuously mixed up in other people's affairs, their mysteries and adventures. I work hours unraveling knots for them. But I never have any adventure of my own, I mean a personal adventure of which I am the central figure, an adventure which would appeal to ray yearning for romance. Most of the cases I handle are those of robbery and forgery. Each is almost a repetition of the preceding one. They lack individuality. At times my work bores me to death, I yearn for something new, to get away from the sordid realities of life."
"Did I not say," broke in Randall Crane, "that your vision was out of focus? I can not understand why you should bother with realities when dreams are so close at hand. A man should select a dream with as much care as lie selects a garment. It is of far more value. Yet it is surprizing how little thought we give to it. Psycho-analysts are beginning to attach a great scientific significance to dreams, thanks to the experiments of Freud, Ernest Jones, and a few other pioneers who do not fear the ridicule of the multitudes who can not at once grasp any new fact. Are you aware that seven-eighths of a man's mind is subconscious and until recently no one knew of its existence? The subconscious mind is really a great vault in which every past record of your life is filed; no picture that ever has or ever will pass before your eyes is last entirely. You may forget it in your conscious mind, but still it is within you, buried in your great subconscious filing system. As a rule your mind enters this vault only when you are asleep, or in other words, dreaming, despite the fact that usually when you awake you immediately forget your dreams. In the face of such unescapable facts, a person must indeed be brave who contends that dreams are utterly worthless. Surely if seven-eighths of one's consciousness is given over to dreams, they must be far more worthwhile than the one-eighth reality."
All this time Hugh's eyes had never once left those of Randall Crane. The waiter, unnoticed, had brought the coffee, but Hugh could not for the life of him have told whether it was black or pink. In fact, he was totally unaware of its existence.
Randall Crane paused for a moment and leaned toward him. His eyes burned with a fire that seemed to penetrate to Hugh's very soul. Of course it was a ridiculous impression and yet, at the time, to Hugh it seemed sane enough.
"Supposing," said Crane tensely, "there were dreams for sale, and you could do your own choosing, what would you buy? Would you crave diamonds and pearls, rubies and
