There were deep shadows there and he hesitated a moment.

Chisholm was in an expansive mood and strode along as if he owned the earth. He felt fine. It did not matter that ten of his men had quit that week, and not all of them had been as restrained as old man Firrel in their good-bys. What did he care for the weak sisters? An ad in tomorrow's papers would fill up the anteroom with forty more. If they clicked—weeks from now—so much the better; if not, how could he lose? POHAC's sales department was strictly a straight commission outfit.

The party at the theater were equally angry, though they showed it less.

First, there was all that tiresome marching. Chisholm found himself on a vast gray plain under a dull leaden sky, marching, marching, marching. It was odd that it tired him so, for it was effortless and timeless and the distances, though interminable, seemed meaningless. It must have been the monotony of it. And then, also, he found those marching with him strangely disturbing.

Then a demon materialized directly in front of the shade of Chisholm.