Restless， shifting， fugacious as time itself is a certainvast bulk of the population of the red brick district of thelower West Side. Homeless， they have a hundred homes.
They flit from furnished room to furnished room， transientsforever—transients in abode， transients in heart and mind.
They sing “Home， Sweet Home” in ragtime； they carrytheir lares et penates in a bandbox； their vine is entwinedabout a picture hat； a rubber plant is their fig tree.
Hence the houses of this district， having had a thousanddwellers， should have a thousand tales to tell， mostly dullones， no doubt； but it would be strange if there could notbe found a ghost or two in the wake of all these vagrantguests.
One evening after dark a young man prowled amongthese crumbling red mansions， ringing their bells. At thetwelfth he rested his lean hand-baggage upon the stepand wiped the dust from his hatband and forehead. Thebell sounded faint and far away in some remote， hollowdepths.
To the door of this， the twelfth house whose bell hehad rung， came a housekeeper who made him think of anunwholesome， surfeited worm that had eaten its nut to ahollow shell and now sought to fill the vacancy with ediblelodgers.
He asked if there was a room to let.
“Come in，” said the housekeeper. Her voice came fromher throat； her throat seemed lined with fur. “I have thethird floor back， vacant since a week back. Should youwish to look at it？”
The young man followed her up the stairs. A faint lightfrom no particular source mitigated the shadows of thehalls. They trod noiselessly upon a stair carpet that its ownloom would have forsworn. It seemed to have becomevegetable； to have degenerated in that rank， sunless air tolush lichen or spreading moss that grew in patches to thestaircase and was viscid under the foot like organic matter.
At each turn of the stairs were vacant niches in the wall.
Perhaps plants had once been set within them. If so theyhad died in that foul and tainted air. It may be that statuesof the saints had stood there， but it was not difficult toconceive that imps and devils had dragged them forthin the darkness and down to the unholy depths of somefurnished pit below.
“This is the room，” said the housekeeper， from her furrythroat. “It’s a nice room. It ain’t often vacant. I had somemost elegant people in it last summer—no trouble at all，and paid in advance to the minute. The water’s at the endof the hall. Sprowls and Mooney kept it three months.
They done a vaudeville sketch. Miss B’retta Sprowls—youmay have heard of her—Oh， that was just the stagenames—right there over the dresser is where the marriagecertificate hung， framed. The gas is here， and you see thereis plenty of closet room. It’s a room everybody likes. Itnever stays idle long.”
“Do you have many theatrical people rooming here？”
asked the young man.
“They comes and goes. A good proportion of my lodgersis connected with the theatres. Yes， sir， this is the theatricaldistrict. Actor people never stays long anywhere. I get myshare. Yes， they comes and they goes.”
He engaged the room， paying for a week in advance. Hewas tired， he said， and would take possession at once. Hecounted out the money. The room had been made ready，she said， even to towels and water. As the housekeepermoved away he put， for the thousandth time， the questionthat he carried at the end of his tongue.
“A young girl—Miss Vashner—Miss Eloise Vashner—doyou remember such a one among your lodgers？ She wouldbe singing on the stage， most likely. A fair girl， of mediumheight and slender， with reddish， gold hair and a dark molenear her left eyebrow.”
“No， I don’t remember the name. Them stage peoplehas names they change as often as their rooms. Theycomes and they goes. No， I don’t call that one to mind.”
No. Always no. Five months of ceaseless interrogationand the inevitable negative. So much time spent by day inquestioning managers， agents， schools and choruses； bynight among the audiences of theatres from all-star castsdown to music halls so low that he dreaded to find whathe most hoped for. He who had loved her best had triedto find her. He was sure that since her disappearance fromhome this great， water-girt city held her somewhere， butit was like a monstrous quicksand， shifting its particlesconstantly， with no foundation， its upper granules of todayburied to-morrow in ooze and slime.
The furnished room received its latest guest witha first glow of pseudo-hospitality， a hectic， haggard，perfunctory welcome like the specious smile of a demirep.
The sophistical comfort came in reflected gleams fromthe decayed furniture， the ragged brocade upholsteryof a couch and two chairs， a foot-wide cheap pier glassbetween the two windows， from one or two gilt pictureframes and a brass bedstead in a corner.
The guest reclined， inert， upon a chair， while the room，confused in speech as though it were an apartment inBabel， tried to discourse to him of its divers tenantry.
A polychromatic rug like some brilliant-floweredrectangular， tropical islet lay surrounded by a billowy seaof soiled matting. Upon the gay-papered wall were thosepictures that pursue the homeless one from house tohouse—The Huguenot Lovers， The First Quarrel， TheWedding Breakfast， Psyche at the Fountain. The mantel’schastely severe outline was ingloriously veiled behindsome pert drapery drawn rakishly askew like the sashes ofthe Amazonian ballet. Upon it was some desolate flotsamcast aside by the room’s marooned when a lucky sail hadborne them to a fresh port—a trifling vase or two， picturesof actresses， a medicine bottle， some stray cards out of adeck.