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| Heading by Vincent Napoli | |
| The | |
| Last Man |
BY SEABURY QUINN
One cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Mycroft paused self-consciously before the little bronze plate marked simply TOUSSAINT above the doorbell of the big brownstone house in East One Hundred and Thirty-sixth Street. He felt extraordinarily foolish, like a costumed adult at a child's masquerade party, or as if he were about to rise and "speak a piece." People—his kind of people—simply didn't do this sort of thing.
Then his resolution hardened. "What can I lose?" he muttered cynically, and pressed the button.
A Negro butler, correct as a St. John's Wood functionary in silver-buttoned dress suit and striped waistcoat, answered his ring. "Mister—Monsieur Toussaint?" asked Mycroft tentatively.
"Who iss calling?" asked the butler with the merest trace of accent on his words.
"Uh—Mr. Smith—no, Jones," Mycroft replied, and the shadow of a sneer showed at the corners of the young Negro's mouth. "One minute, if you pleez," he returned, stepped back into the hall and closed the
