momentary hesitation, I followed, and passed through. Outside, instead of the familiar landing and the stairs up which I had so often wearily plodded, extended, far as I could see, a fairly lighted corridor of handsome proportions. In surprise I turned involuntarily toward the door through which I had just passed; but that, too, had vanished. The corridor extended, apparently, as far in that direction as in the other. For the moment, at least, we two seemed to be the only occupants of this seemingly endless gallery. Smiling at my look of amazement, my companion said,—
"You seem surprised; but are you quite certain of never having seen this place before?"
"Absolutely certain!" was my emphatic reply.
My companion regarded me with a look of keen inquiry, seemed to repress some observation that rose to his lips, but went on to say,—
"On passing at a step from the nineteenth to the ninety-sixth century, you must naturally expect to find many changes. The New York you knew and dwelt in crumbled into dust almost eighty centuries ago, in the ages that are now regarded as the twilight of history. Its fragments form only the lowermost layer of the five fathoms deep of detritus on which the present city stands, the accumulated remains of a succession of cities, each more magnificent than its predecessor."
Meanwhile we had reached and entered one of the recesses from which the corridor seemed to receive its light. This recess was closed toward the street by a single sheet of glass, presenting no visible outlet. It yielded, however, to a gentle push from my companion,
