The messenger was peering at the card above the push-button beside the apartment entrance as I came up the stairs. "Chesby?" he said laconically, extending a pink envelope. "He lives here," I answered. "I'll sign for it." The boy clumped off downstairs, and I let myself in, never dreaming that I held the key to destiny in my hand-or, rather, in the pink envelope. A samovar was bubbling in the studio, and my cousin Betty King hailed me from the couch...