The following paragraph in the "Personal" column of the HERALD caught my eye. "Listen to this," I said, and read it aloud to my sulky host:

"'To Mademoiselle D.,—There are ninety-and-nine kisses still due me, and I propose to collect. Box 90, Herald office (up-town), or telephone 18,901 Madison Square. (Private wire.) "'HOUSE-SMITH.'"

Esper Indiman smiled and touched an electric button. "The letters, Bolder," he said, but the man had anticipated his request, and was carrying in a salver heaped high with missives and papers.

"I had the personal put in the HERALD the same night of our adventure at the House-smiths' bazaar," said Indiman. "Also repeated in to-day's issue."

"It seems to be bearing a fine crop of replies."

"There's a bushel-basket of 'em already—mostly from the alleged humorist. Or else it's this sort of thing," and he tossed over an extraordinary piece of stationery—white cream-laid, with edging like a mourning band, only pink instead of black; think of that!

Of course, the contents of the letter did not belie its exterior. "Mr. House-smith" was informed that not only ninety-nine, but nine hundred and ninety-nine, kisses were at his disposal whenever he cared to communicate with Miss Delicia Millefleurs. The writing was somewhat shaky, and "communicate" was spelled with one m. Moreover, the general appearance of the epistle was marred by the presence of a large blot. But Miss Millefleurs was plainly a young person of instant ingenuity, and she had turned the disfigurement to good purpose by drawing a circle around it and labelling it, "One on account."

"Then there's this," said Indiman, and handed me a sheet of foolscap which had been folded and sealed without an envelope, after the fashion of our great-grandfathers. On it was pasted a strip of the tape used in electric-recording instruments, and the characters were those of the Morse alphabet, rather an unusual sight nowadays, when receiving messages by sound is the universal practice. Underneath the row of dots and dashes had been written their English equivalents in Indiman's small, close handwriting. The transcribed message read:

"One thousand (s) dollars apiece (s) offered for any or all of ninety-nine (s) kisses, undelivered. Take car No. 6 (s), 'Blue Line' crosstown, any (s) evening, and get off at West Fourth Street. Purchase two pounds of the best (s) butter at the corner grocery, and ask for a purple trading (s) stamp."

"Quite as extravagant as the advertisement that called it forth," I remarked. "To the wholly impartial mind it seems like nonsense."

"'Ah, but what precious nonsense!'" quoted Indiman, musingly. Then, suddenly: "Thorp, we need butter; I wish you'd step around to that West Fourth Street grocery and get a couple of pounds—the best butter, mind."

I rose. "Certainly; back in half an hour."

"Oh, this evening is time enough. Man, man, can't you see through a ladder? They're after the girl with the gray eyes, and hope in this way to get a clew to her whereabouts. Now, you can't fight shadows; the only chance is to match them against each other. Do I make myself quite clear?"

"Not in the least."

"I want to know who sends that message, and it's possible that the answer is right under our eyes." He held up the strip of telegraphic tape. "Do you see the letter S, enclosed in parentheses, and repeated before several words?"

"Means nothing, so far as I see."

"Unless it's a habit with the operator to occasionally sound the three dots that make up the letter S in the Morse alphabet—unconsciously, you know, and just as another man, in speaking, might stutter or continually introduce a hesitating 'er' or 'um.'"

"Impossible."

"Nothing is impossible, my dear fellow." Here the bell of the desk-telephone rang. "For example, this call may be from Mademoiselle D. herself." He picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. "It is," he said, looking over at me.

The weather conditions happened to be particularly favorable for telephonic communication; I could hear almost as distinctly, standing on my side of the table, as Indiman himself. I started to walk away, then I stopped, and announced my intention of listening also; Indiman nodded assent.

There was unmistakable annoyance and anxiety in the tones of the voice that greeted us. "I have just seen your absurd advertisement," it began. "I beg of you to let this matter drop, instantly, finally."

"A request without a reason," answered Indiman, "You owe me something more than that."

"There is danger—"

"To me or to you?"

"To yourself."

"I am sorry, but you have indicated the sole condition which makes my withdrawal possible."

A little feminine sigh came from the other end of the wire. "Oh, dear, it was so stupid of me to say that—to a man!" A pause. Then, in a slightly vexed tone, "Supposing that it is a question of minding one's own business."

"Precisely what I am trying to do," said Indiman, humbly. "It is a settlement that I am proposing."

"I perceive, sir, that I am making myself ridiculous," and the voice sounded cold and inconceivably distant. "I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning." The telephone rang off sharply.

I fancy that the same thought was in both our minds: Could this be the same woman whom we had seen selling her kisses at an East Side bazaar? The very thought was incredible. And remember that we had not heard her voice before. Yet neither of us doubted, even for a moment.

"After all, it was only the one kiss that was actually sold and delivered," said Indiman, half-defiantly. But he need not have defended her to me.

It was getting to be a very pretty problem as it stood, the one obvious probability being that it was the girl herself who stood in danger. What could we do? To discover the nature of the impending peril and, above all, the personnel of the conspirators. And then what? How were we to communicate with or warn the girl?—for, of course, she had called up Indiman from a public pay-station, leaving no clew to her identity or address. Well, there was still the Personal column in the HERALD; it had reached her once and might again.

"I am going down-town to the main office of the Western Union," said Indiman, "and may be away all day. If I shouldn't return by dinner-time, you will carry out the instructions in the message. Exactly, remember—car No. 6, and the best butter—each detail may be important. About nine o'clock should be a good hour."

"I understand," I said, and we parted.

At exactly half after nine that evening I stepped off car No. 6 at the crossing of West Fourth and Eleventh streets. The grocery was on the northwest corner, and I entered without hesitation.

Like many other big cities, New York (even excluding the transpontine suburbs) is a collection of towns and villages rather than a homogeneous municipality. Chelsea and Harlem and the upper West Side—all these are distinct and separate centres of community life. Greenwich Village knows naught of Yorkville, and the East Side Ghetto has no dealings with the inhabitants of the French quarter.

Now the small area bounded by Waverley Place, Christopher, West Fourth, and West Eleventh streets is also a law unto itself. The neighborhood is respectable and severely old fashioned, the houses large and comfortable, and the resident population almost entirely native New-Yorkers in moderate circumstances. A village, then, with its shops and school-houses and churches; it is as provincial in its way as the Lonelyville of the comic weeklies. The grocery is the village club, at least for the respectable part of the male population, the men who would not be seen in a corner saloon. There were half a dozen of the regulars now in the shop, seated on boxes and chairs around the stove, for it was a raw and chilly day. They looked up as I entered, but no one moved or spoke. Undoubtedly my man was in the group, but how to pick him out. I walked to the counter and addressed the young fellow who lounged behind it.

"Two pounds of the best butter, please."

"All out," was the unexpected reply.

"All out!" I repeated, stupidly.

"None of the best—that's what I said."

"I wanted a purple trading-stamp," I went on, helplessly.

"Anything over five cents' worth—jar of pickles, if you like."

"No, not that. Here, give me—how much are those cigars?"

"Five and ten."

"Ten cents, then."

The young man handed out the box with a nonchalant air. "Help yourself," he said.

I selected a cigar. "You're sure you haven't any butter—the BEST butter?"

"Ah, now, whadjer giving us? This ain't no Tiffany & Co. Best butter? Uh! P'r'aps you'd like to take a peck of di'monds home wid jer—the best di'monds, mind, all ready shelled and fried in gold-dust. And just throw in a bunch of them German-silver banglelets for the salad. Yessir; charge 'em to Mr. Astor, Astorville, N. G."

The loungers about the stove sniggered audibly, but something in the fellow's voice made me forget his insolence. I looked up and into the eyes of Esper Indiman.

I think I did it pretty well—the cool, ignoring stare with which one is accustomed to put a boor out of countenance.

"Let me have a light," I went on, quietly, and the pretended grocer's boy was zealous to oblige, scratching the match himself and leaning across the counter to hold the flame to the cigar end.

"Coach waiting for you in front of the church," he whispered. "Drive straight home and slowly—to give him a chance."

I left the shop without troubling to glance at the loungers about the fire; Indiman would attend to that part of the business. The coach was in waiting at the Baptist Church, and the driver touched his hat when I mentioned my name. I gave him the address, and told him to drive slowly. As we turned into Seventh Avenue I looked back and saw a cab following.

An hour later Indiman came in and joined me in the library. "Now, then!" I said, impatiently, after waiting to see him mix a high-ball and light a tremendously black breva. Indiman is a little provoking at times with his infinite deliberation.

"Where were we?" he began. "Ah, yes, I had my theory about finding the chap who wrote out that message. It was correct—absolutely so," and Indiman puffed away in dreamy content, staring up at the ceiling.

"I know Mason of the main Western Union office quite well, and he was most obliging. Recognized the peculiarity of the telegraphic sending at once; there actually was a fellow who had a habit of interjecting the superfluous S in his despatches. Name of Ewall, and he was the operator in a sub-station near Jefferson Market.

"Well, I posted up there and sounded him. He didn't know anything about it at first, so I had to scare him a bit; he weakened then, and told me what I wanted to know.

"Of course it wasn't a real message; he had run it off on his machine at the request of a queer-looking gentleman who had given him a couple of dollars for his trouble. According to his description, the man was stout and dark, with one ear—the left—decidedly larger than the other."

"Aha! the fellow we saw at the bazaar. But he wasn't in the group about the grocery stove."

"Of course not, but he had his capper there."

"Go on."

"Well, I thanked Mr. Ewall for his information, and left him with a solemn admonition to be more careful in the future about doing business on the side. Then I sat down to consider.

"Now, I was sure that the grocery and its proprietor, the two pounds of the best butter, and the purple trading-stamp had nothing to do with the real business of the evening. The game was simply to identify the 'Mr. House-smith' who had advertised for his ninety-and-nine kisses, and the clap-trap of the message in telegraphic characters, and all the rest of it, were simply the kind of bait at which so eccentric a person might be expected to bite. The gentleman with one ear larger than the other desired to find the elusive Mademoiselle D., erstwhile dispenser of kisses at an East Side charity bazaar, and, consequently, he was following up every possible clew. He wanted 'Mr. House-smith,' and I wanted him.

"Fight shadows with shadows, remember; and so I took service with my honest friend, David Brown, dealer in groceries at West Fourth and Eleventh streets. He was rather offish at first, but Mattson, at Police Head-quarters, had provided me with a special detective badge, and Mr Brown was led to believe that I was working up a case of graft. He lent me a jumper, and I was forthwith installed behind the counter.

"Everything went off according to schedule. The 'shadow' had his cab in readiness and I had mine. He trailed you to No. 4020 Madison Avenue, and I followed Mr. Shadow to the Central Detective Office. It seems to have been a case of sleuth against sleuth, with the match all square."

"Anything else?"

"Well, yes. As I came into the house just now, two men were waiting for me in the vestibule. They went through me; but I didn't seem to have what they wanted. I still retain possession of my watch and purse."

"So," I said, somewhat helplessly. "What's the next move on the board?"

"It is the last night of the supplementary opera season," answered Indiman, "and we are going to dress and see what we can of Tschaikowsky's 'Queen of Spades.' A novelty—first and only performance outside of Russia, and Ternina heads the cast."

"There is Mademoiselle D.," remarked Indiman, as his glass swept the semicircle of the parterre. "The fourth box from the end."

There were but three people in the party—the girl with the gray eyes, an elderly man with a ribbon in his button-hole, and Jack Crawfurd, whom everybody knows.

The curtain fell on the third act, and immediately Crawfurd made his appearance in the omnibus-box where we were sitting.

"Come with me, mes enfants," he said, genially. "It seems that you and the adorable Countess Gilda are old friends. She commands your instant attendance. What, man! do you hesitate? I shall lose my head an our sovereign lady be not instantly obeyed."

The girl with the gray eyes greeted us with smiling unconcern. "Do you know my uncle?" she asked, and we were forthwith presented to his Excellency Baron Cassilis, the Russian ambassador to the United States. Then the Countess Gilda addressed herself squarely to Indiman.

"I am in your debt, Mr. Indiman, and you must permit me to discharge the obligation. My dear uncle, your purse."

Indiman bowed and accepted the fifty-dollar bill tendered him.

"Now we are quits," she said, smiling.

"Not quite," he answered, hardily. He drew a half-dollar from his waistcoat-pocket and offered it to her. A flood of color mantled her brow, but she took the coin and slipped it into her glove. "Well?" she asked, her small chin defiantly uptilted.

"I have only one question," said Indiman, earnestly. "Is there danger for you?"

"None in the world."

"Then I am quite satisfied."

She softened at that. "Only a rather aggravating disappointment; it does not matter now. But why will you men interfere in an unoffending woman's affairs."

"I had no idea—"

"Of course not. However, we need not enter further into particulars. Your friend in the orchestra-stall yonder will doubtless enlighten you later on." A stout man with one ear distinctly larger than the other deliberately faced about in his seat and directed his glasses at our box. Immediately upon this the curtain went up on the last act, and his Excellency held up his hand to command silence.

"Madame," said Indiman, as he handed the Countess Gilda to her carriage, "I swear to you that the blunder I have unintentionally committed shall be atoned for. I ask but a hint—the slightest of clews."

"With pleasure, monsieur. I give you, therefore, the third appearance of the Queen of Spades. Au revoir! We sail to-morrow by the Cunarder."

The man with the disproportionate ears touched Indiman's elbow. "Beg pardon, sir," he said, deferentially, "but I shall have to have a word or two with you."

We drove to the Utinam Club and found a secluded corner. "Now, what is it, officer?" said Indiman.

The detective looked rather sheepish. "I'm afraid we've made a mess of it between us. Case of political blackmail, you see, and the young lady thought she could handle it herself. And so she could have done if we hadn't butted in, begging your pardon for so saying."

"Get to the point."

"Well, then, it's a question of a letter belonging to a great person in Roosha—written to or by her don't matter. The letter is here in New York, and it isn't a question of money with the holder, but power. There's only one thing to do in that case—steal it, and the Countess thought she could turn the trick. So she went over on the Rooshan East Side and laid her pipes to stand next to the old party who holds the precious document. At the Baron's request I was detailed from the Central Office and instructed to keep my eyes on the young woman and my hands off the case. 'Course, then, I couldn't do neither. I lost the girl when you walked off with her at the house-smiths' bazaar, and then I had to stick in my oar and answer your personal in the Herald. I laid what I thought was a pretty smart trap. You fell into it, right enough."

"So you were the fellow who had me searched and held up at my own front door," said Indiman. "Confound your impudence! What did you expect to get?"

"Why, the letter, sir. I had figured it out that you was the black-mailer."

"Oh, the deuce! And in the mean time the real article had been put on his or her guard by all this hullabaloo, and the Countess Gilda's game was blocked."

"That's it, sir. A mistake all round."

"I should think so. Well, there's nothing more to be done. That's all you know about the case?"

"That's all, sir."

"Never heard of the Queen of Spades in this connection?"

"Never, sir."

"Well, good-night, officer. Brownson's your name, eh? I shan't forget it."

"Good-night, sir."

The night was fine, and we walked home. Over on Eighth Avenue a masquerade ball was in progress; we passed under the brightly lit windows of the hall in which it was being held. A masker stood at the door, a woman dressed to impersonate the Queen of Spades. She waved her hand to Indiman, who had chanced to look up; then she plucked a rose from her bodice and tossed it over to him. He caught the flower, as becomes a gallant man, but immediately walked on.

"That was your cue—the Queen of Spades," I said.

"Not at all. It is only the third time that counts. First at the opera, and now here; the final and only important appearance is still to come."

At the next corner a wretchedly clad woman sat grinding a small barrel-organ. "For the love of Mary!" she whimpered, and Indiman thrust something into her waiting hand. He tried to hide the action, but I had caught sight of the money—a yellow-backed bill bearing the magic figures 50.

"Did you notice the tune?" said Indiman, as we walked on. "The Ninety-and-Nine."



VI

The Queen of Spades

I am very fond of Esper Indiman, but there are times when he is positively unfit for human society. Last week, for instance, when for three days on end we did not exchange a single word, not even at dinner, where the amenities should come on at least with the walnuts. I grant you that humdrum wears upon the spirit, that the flatness of the daily road may be a harder thing to get over than even Mr. Bunyan's hill Difficulty, but for a man to surrender himself mind and body to solitaire argues weakness. Moreover, it was a ridiculous combination of the cards that Indiman invariably set himself to resolve; the chances were at least a hundred to one against the solitaire coming out, and, indeed, I never saw him get it but once. Under rather curious circumstances, too—but I won't anticipate; let us begin with the beginning of the adventure of the Queen of Spades.

You will remember that there was a mislaid letter whose possession had become a matter of supreme importance to a certain great person in Russia. The Countess Gilda (she of the Ninety-and-nine Kisses) had been on the point of obtaining the treasure, but the over-confidence of my friend Indiman, coupled with the blunders of a stupid detective, had brought about a premature explosion of the train. To Indiman, apologetic and remorseful, the Countess Gilda had vouchsafed a single pregnant utterance—"Wait for the third appearance of the Queen of Spades." This was his cue; let him make the most of it if he would repair the mischief that he had unwittingly done.

Now the opera, on the night preceding the Countess's departure for Europe, had been Tschaikowsky's "Queen of Spades"; the inference was inevitable that here was the first materialization of our mysterious heroine. That same evening we had encountered, at an Eighth Avenue ball, a masker whose costume had been designed upon the familiar model of the court-card in question; so much for number two. But Fortune had been almost too kind, and immediately upon this promising beginning she had withdrawn her smiles. For upward of a month nothing whatever had happened. As I have said, Indiman played solitaire and I smoked as much as I could. Dull work for all that it was the end of April, the height of the Easter season, and New York was at its gayest. A brilliant show—yes, and the same old one. Did you ever eat a quail a day for thirty days? Why not for three hundred or three thousand days, supposing that one is really fond of quail?

For the thirty-fifth consecutive time the solitaire failed to come out. Indiman gathered the cards, shuffled them with infinite precision, and handed them to me to cut. I did so. Indiman took the pack and flung it into the air; the cards fluttered in all directions, and one came sailing straight for my nose. I put up my hand and caught it—it was the Queen of Spades.

"Here is the lady for the fateful third time," I remarked, jestingly. But Indiman was nothing if not serious. He took the card from me and studied it attentively.

"Rather an interesting face, don't you think?" he said, musingly. "Somewhat Semitic in physiognomy, you notice; that comes from the almond-shaped eyes and the abnormally high arch of the brows. Would you know her in the actual flesh—say, on Broadway? Brunette, of course, jet-black hair banded a la Merode over the ears, a little droop at the corners of her mouth. Voila! The Queen of Spades. Let us go out and look for her."

"A proposition," I remarked, judicially, "that savors of the rankest lunacy. And yet, why not? The lady certainly made the advances; it is an equivalent to an invitation to call. Pity she doesn't put her address on her card."

"Hym!" coughed Indiman, delicately. "That is a difficulty. But not necessarily an insurmountable one. Let us consult the street directory, with minds open and unprejudiced, and our faith will be rewarded—doubt it not.

"We will pass over the numbered streets and avenues," continued Indiman. "I am not in the mood for mathematical subtleties, although there is much of virtue in the digit 9, as every adept knows. Names are our quest to-day, so listen to them as they run—Allen, Bleecker, Bayard, Dey, Division—now why Division, do you suppose? What was divided, and who got the lion's share?"

"A delicate allusion to some eighteenth-century graft," I suggested. "Consult the antiquaries."

"Oh, it's enough for our purpose that the division itself exists; it must lie below the 'barbed-wire fence,' somewhere across the line. To speak precisely, Division Street appears to start at Chatham Square, and it runs eastward to Grand Street. We will take the Third Avenue Elevated to Chatham Square, and then ask a policeman. Nothing could be more simple."

Descending the Elevated stairs, Division Street lay right before our eyes, and further inquiry was superfluous. Indiman's spirits had risen amazingly. "Why, it's only an elementary exercise," he said, smilingly. "Divide an East Side street by a pack of cards, and the quotient is the Queen of Spades; you simply cannot escape from the conclusion. Forward, then."

Now, Division Street IS something out of the ordinary, as down-town thoroughfares go. It is the principal highway to that remote Yiddish country whose capital is William H. Seward Square, and the entire millinery and feminine tailoring business of the lower East Side is centred at this its upper end. In the one short block from Chatham Square to Market Street there are twenty-seven millinery establishments—count them for yourself—and with one exception the other shops are devoted to the sale of cloaks and mantuas and tailor-made gowns. All on the eastward of the street, you notice. There is a dollar and a shilling side in Division Street, just as elsewhere.

Talk of Bond Street and Fifth Avenue! Where will you find twenty-seven millinery shops in an almost unbroken row? What a multiplied vista of delight for feminine eyes—hats, hats, hats, as far as the eye can reach. Black hats and white hats; red, blue, and greenery-yallery hats; weird creations so loaded with gimp and passementerie as to certainly weigh a pound or more; daring confections in gauze and feathers; parterres of exotic blooms such as no earthly garden ever held; hats with bows on 'em and hats with birds on 'em, and hats with beasts on 'em; hats that twitter and hats that squawk; hats of lordly velvet and hats of plebeian corduroy; felt hats, straw hats, chip hats; wide brim and narrow brim; skewered, beribboned, bebowed—finally, again, just hats, hats, hats, a phantasmagoria of primary colors and gewgaws and fallalerie pure and simple, before which the masculine brain fairly reels. But the woman contemplates the show with serenity imperturbable: the hat she wants is here somewhere, and it is only a matter of time and patience to find it.

There is always a Mont Blanc to overtop the lesser Alpine summits—a Koh-i-noor in whose splendor all inferior radiance is extinguished.

Indiman touched my elbow. "Look at that one," he murmured.

Now that WAS a hat. To describe it—but let me first bespeak the indulgence of my feminine readers. I am not an authority upon hats—most distinctly not; and I shall probably display my ignorance with the first word out of my mouth. But what matter. I am simply trying to tell of what these poor mortal eyes have seen.

In effect, then, the foundation of the hat appeared to be a black straw, with a wide, straight brim, the trimming being a gimcrackery sort of material whose name for the moment has escaped me. Suppose we call it barege, and let it go at that? The principal ornament was a large, red apple in wax, pierced by a German-silver arrow, but the really unique feature of the entire creation was the parasol-like fringe that depended from the edge of the brim, a continuous row of four-inch filaments upon which shining black beads were closely strung. An over-bold device, perhaps, but it certainly caught the eye; there was a barbaric suggestion in those strings of glittering beads that made one think of the Congo and of tomtoms beating brazenly in the moonlight. A hat that WAS a hat, as I have previously remarked, and Indiman and I gazed upon it with undisguised interest. It is hardly necessary to add that this particular hat had the place of honor in the shop-window, it being mounted upon the waxen model of a simpering lady with flaxen curls and a complexion incomparable. Assuredly, then, the pearl of the collection.

"L. Hernandez," said Indiman, reading the sign over the door. "Spanish Jew, I should say. Yes, and the Queen of Spades in person," he added, in an undertone, for L. Hernandez was standing in the open door-way of the shop and regarding us with a curious fixity of glance.

Now, through the summer-time it is the custom of the Division Street modistes to occupy seats placed on the sidewalk. In a business where competition is so strenuous one must be prepared to catch the customer on the hop. Even in winter the larger establishments will keep a scout on duty outside, and the lesser proprietor must, at least, cast an occasional eye to windward, if the balance of trade is to be preserved. Undoubtedly Madame Hernandez was taking a purely business observation, and we had chanced to fall within its focus.

The resemblance was, indeed, striking. There was the banded hair over the eyes, the slightly drooping mouth, the peculiar upspring of the eyebrow arch—the Queen of Spades in person, as Indiman had said. And this was her third appearance.

Indiman removed his hat with a sweep. "Madame," he said, with elaborate civility, "it is a beautiful day."

"What of it?" retorted L. Hernandez, ungraciously enough. "Or perhaps the sun isn't shining above Madison Square," she added, sarcastically. A strange voice this, raucous in quality and abnormally low in pitch.

"I haven't noticed," said Indiman, with undisturbed good-humor. "Alike upon the just and unjust, you know. Now if you will kindly allow me to pass—"

"What do you want in my shop?"

"I desire to purchase that hat," replied Indiman, and pointed to the atrocity in the window.

"It is not for sale."

"I am prepared to pay liberally for what strikes my fancy." He took out a roll of bills.

"The hat is not for sale."

"Madame," said Indiman, with the utmost suavity, "are you in business for your health?"

"I am."

"Oh, in that case—"

"You may come inside; it tires me to be on my feet for so long. To my sorrow I grow stout."

"It is an affliction," murmured Indiman, sympathetically. We followed her within. The shop was crammed from floor to ceiling with bandboxes arranged in three or four rows, and glazed presses, filled with feminine hats and bonnets, lined the walls. Near the window was a small counter, behind which Madame L. Hernandez immediately installed herself, and from this vantage-point she proceeded to inspect us with cool deliberation, fanning herself the while with a huge palm-leaf. "You wish to buy a hat?" she said, tentatively.

"That one," answered Indiman, stubbornly "—that hat on the model's head."

"Bah! Senor, it is fatiguing to fight, like children, with pillows in the dark. You want that Russian letter. Why not say so?"

For a full half-minute their eyes met in silent thrust and parry; it was to be a duel, then, and each was an antagonist to be respected.

"If it is a question of money—" said Indiman, slowly.

"It is not."

"Then I must take it where I find it."

"So it appears," answered L. Hernandez, placidly. "But you must first find it. Eh, my bold young man?"

"Be tranquil, madame—"

"I am tranquil. You are but wasting your time."

"I have it to spend in unlimited quantity. I am a solitaire-player."

"Oh, you play solitaire. How many variations do you know?"

"One hundred and thirty-five."

"I can count one hundred and forty-two."

"Including the 'Bridge'?"

"The famous 'Bridge'! Do you know it, then?"

"I learned it from a Polish gentleman in Belgrade."

"It is difficult."

"Enormously so. It may come out once in a hundred times."

Madame L. Hernandez produced a pack of cards from underneath the counter. "Will you oblige me, senor? I am anxious to see the play."

Indiman proceeded with the explanation. It was too intricate for me to follow. I could only understand that, with the solitaire properly resolved, the cards should finally divide themselves into four packs, headed respectively by the ace of clubs, king of diamonds, queen of spades, and knave of hearts. Indiman tried it twice, but the combination would not come out.

"We will try it again to-morrow," said Indiman, rising.

"With pleasure. Good-day, gentlemen. Mind the step."

As we walked towards Chatham Square a stout man joined us, a man with one ear noticeably larger than the other. "Mr. Indiman—" he began, deferentially.

"What, you, Brownson?"

"Yes, sir. I have an assignment on this job from the Central Office. I saw you coming out of L. Hernandez's just now. Smooth old bird, ain't it?"

"You on this case?" said Indiman, stupefied.

"Yes, sir. You see, the parties concerned finally determined to put it into our hands, and they'd have been enough sight better off if they'd done it in the beginning. Bless you! it's no great shakes of a lay-out. There's the letter—a single sheet of note-paper written in violet ink on one side only, and we know the party who has it up her sleeve. L. Hernandez—I don't mind saying it, seeing that you're also on. I'll do the trick within three days, or you can boil my head for a corned-beef dinner."

"Well, good luck to you, Brownson," said Indiman, absently. There was a cab-rank here in Chatham Square, and we drove up-town to the Utinam Club for a late luncheon. While we were waiting for our filet to be prepared Indiman wrote a brief note and had it despatched by messenger; it was addressed, as he showed me, to Madame L. Hernandez,—Division Street. "I'm not going to have that booby upset the apple-cart for a second time," he said, savagely. "Now we shall have to wait for at least three days."

This was on Monday; on Friday we presented ourselves again to Madame L. Hernandez. She received us politely, almost graciously; she sat in the great chair behind the counter, engaged in the truly feminine occupation of putting up her hair in curl-papers. A pad of stiff, white writing-paper lay on the counter before her, and from it she tore the strips as she needed them.

"I am tired of these bandeaux," she explained, smilingly. "My friends tell me that curls will become me infinitely better."

"Your friends have reason," acquiesced Indiman; "but tell me, madame, did you receive my note?"

"I did, senor, and I return you a thousand thanks. Ah, how these pigs of detectives have tortured me!—you would never believe it. Twice my apartments, at the back there, have been entered and ransacked from end to end; I even suffered the indignity of being personally searched by a dreadful newspaper woman who had answered my advertisement for 'Improvers Wanted.' Chloroformed in broad daylight in my own house!"

"But they didn't get the letter?"

"I was not born yesterday, senor."

"Good!" said Indiman, heartily. "What imbeciles policemen can be!"

"What, indeed! Behold, senor, I show you the ruin wrought by these swine. This way."

L. Hernandez rose, waddled stiffly to the back room, and threw open the door. "There!" she exclaimed, dramatically.

Evidently these were the lady's living apartments—a bed-chamber and a smaller room at the left, in which were a gas-range and some smaller culinary apparatus. It was plain that the intruders had made thorough work in their search. The carpet had been removed and the flooring partially torn up; the walls had been sounded for secret receptacles, the pictures stripped of their backing, and the chairs and bedstead pulled half to pieces. "Not a square inch of anything have they left unprobed by their accursed needles," said L. Hernandez, furiously. "It will take me a month, stiff as I am, to get things to rights."

"An outrage!" said Indiman, soothingly. "Shall we have a try at crossing the 'Bridge'?" And forthwith they sat down to the great solitaire with the utmost amity. But again it did not come out; the combinations were insoluble.

The next day we paid another visit to L. Hernandez.

"The curl-papers do not seem to be very effective," remarked Indiman, glancing at the familiar smooth bands of hair drawn straight down from the forehead and over the ears.

"Ah, these wretched bandeaux!" sighed madame; "they are intractable. I shall have to wear my curl-papers by day as well as by night. Excuse me, gentlemen, for a few minutes," and she disappeared into the back room, to shortly reappear with the rebellious bands tightly swathed in a dozen little rolls of twisted paper. "Again the impassable 'Bridge,'" she said, gayly, and the pair wrestled half a dozen times with the problem—of course, unsuccessfully.

On the following day the comedy was repeated.

"Madame," said Indiman, gravely, "you have again forgotten your curl-papers."

"Senor, my memory is undoubtedly failing; I go to repair the omission." Re-enter madame in curl-papers, and then the "Bridge" as before; da capo for a week on end.

"It seems impossible to get that accursed combination," said Indiman, and he threw down the cards. Madame L. Hernandez smiled, and there was a little silence.

"Madame," said Indiman.

"Senor."

"You are not treating me fairly. You have allowed those stupid detectives to search your apartments, and I demand an equal privilege."

"You shall have it, senor. I am going to make a complaint of the affair at Police Headquarters. Perhaps Senor Thorp will kindly accompany me?"

"Excellent! I will remain here, and if the letter is within these four walls I shall find it."

"My best wishes, senor."

I called a coach. Madame arrayed herself in a fur cloak and crowned herself, curl-papers and all, with that atrocious hat from the window stock, a grotesque figure of a woman in all conscience. But I had nerved myself for the ordeal, and we drove away amid the jeers and laughter of the street crowd. In an hour we returned. Indiman was placidly smoking and working on his solitaire.

"You were successful, senor?"

"No, but I have hopes."

"Ah! Well, good-day, gentlemen. Come again."

"Of course there was nothing," said Indiman to me as we drove home. "I even went through every bandbox."

"Yet you have hopes?"

"Yes."

It was the second day following, and we were calling again upon L. Hernandez. There was the usual badinage about the curl-papers, and madame retired to her private apartments, carefully closing the door behind her.

"Now!" said Indiman. Hastily he pulled forward a cheval-glass, placing it upon a particular spot and tilting the mirror to a certain exact angle. When finally it was adjusted to his satisfaction, he motioned to me to come and look. In the mirror was plainly visible a vertically reversed reflection of L. Hernandez. Standing in front of a long dressing-glass in her bedroom, she deliberately removed her chevelure in its entirety and tossed it on the table. It was a wig, then; but I was hardly prepared for the secret that it had concealed—for the close-cropped head, with its straw-colored hair, was unmistakably that of a man.

"Look! look!" whispered Indiman.

From a drawer L. Hernandez had taken a second wig already furnished with curl-papers; the adjustment took but a minute or two; the door opened, and she reappeared, ready for the inevitable solitaire.

On the way home that night Indiman stopped at Police Headquarters, but he did not see fit to make the nature of his inquiries known to me. On the subject of the apparition in the mirror, however, he was more communicative.

"As you know," he said, "the partition that divides madame's private apartments from the shop does not extend to the ceiling; there is a gap of some three feet. I had previously noticed the cheval-glass in the bedroom; it was a natural presumption that L. Hernandez would take her stand in front of it while engaged in making her toilet. Now this glass is tilted at a sharp angle, and consequently the reflection must be projected upward to a particular point on the ceiling. Supposing a small looking-glass to be fixed at this point, the rays impinging upon it will be cast downward and ON OUR SIDE OF THE PARTITION, for the angle of reflection is always equal to that of incidence. We have, therefore, only to place in position a second cheval-glass, arranged at the proper inclination, to obtain a reproduction of the original image, although, of course, it will appear to us as upside-down. I have only to add that the day you escorted madame to Police Headquarters I took the opportunity to fasten a small mirror on the ceiling, trusting that it would not be noticed. Nor was it; the trap worked perfectly—an optical siphon, as it may be called—and the secret was mine."

"And now?"

"Wait until to-morrow," said Indiman.

For the fiftieth time the game of solitaire was in progress, and on this occasion it seemed as though the combinations were actually coming out. Remember, that in the final fall of the cards it was necessary that they should be in four packs, headed by the ace of clubs, king of diamonds, queen of spades, and knave of hearts. Already the first two ranks had been completed; it all depended upon the disposition of the few remaining cards.

"The queen of spades is buried," said L. Hernandez, with a sneer. "You have failed again."

"I think not," replied Indiman, calmly. "I am sure that the last card is the knave of hearts." This was my cue. I stepped to the door and made an imperceptible signal to Brownson, who, with two other plain-clothes men, was lounging in a door-way across the street. They seemed eternally slow in obeying; I felt the muscles in my throat contracting with nervous excitement as I turned again to watch the solitaire.

But two cards remained to be played; they lay face downward upon the table. If the upper one were the queen of spades, the packets would be completed in their proper order and the solitaire would be made; if it were the knave of hearts, the game would again be lost. Slowly—oh, so slowly—Indiman turned the first card.

"Knave!" shouted L. Hernandez, exultingly. Then she stopped and went white. It was not the knave of hearts, but the queen of spades, and over it had been pasted a small carte-de-visite photograph—that of a man dressed in the coarse uniform of one of the Russian penal settlements. With lightning swiftness Indiman leaned forward and twitched the wig from L. Hernandez's head; the man himself sat there before our eyes.

Brownson and his bull-dogs stood at the door, revolvers in hand. But there was no need. The squat, ungainly figure had fallen forward upon the counter, crushing the horrible nightmare of a hat of which I have so often spoken, and which, quite by chance, as it seemed, had been lying there. Brownson sprang forward and raised the limp body. The red, waxen apple had been broken into a dozen pieces. Among them lay the fragments of a fragile glass phial, and the smell of almonds was in the air.

"Prussic acid," said Brownson, sententiously. "He wasn't the kind to be taken alive."

Indiman mechanically turned over the last card; it was the knave of hearts, and the famous solitaire of the "Bridge" had been made at last. He slipped the cards into his pocket and rose to go. "Brownson," he said, with a little catch in his voice, "I didn't think that it would come to this, but it had to be, I suppose. Have him put away decently, and send the account to me."

"Very good, sir. But ain't it a pity about that letter. However, we can take a good look now, and maybe we'll turn it up yet."

"Perhaps so," said Indiman.

"His real name was Gribedyoff, and he was implicated in the assassination of Prince Trapasky," said Indiman to me as we sat over our cigars that night. "A desperate fellow, one of the 'Blacks,' you know. I picked his picture out in a moment at Police Headquarters, after seeing his reflection in the mirror. I knew it was necessary to surprise him, and so I borrowed the photograph and used it to transmogrify the queen of spades card. Just for an instant he lost his nerve, but that was enough."

"But, as Brownson said, how about the letter?"

Indiman drew from his pocket the wig, to which the curl-papers were still attached. He unrolled one and showed it to me. I could see that the strip was written in French on one side of the paper and in violet ink. "It will be easy enough to piece it together again," he said. "Plain enough now, isn't it, why L. Hernandez cared not at all how often Brownson's men rummaged table-drawers and chair-seats. The letter was safe until the time should come to use it. Only it never came."

"I suppose you are going abroad?"

"I shall sail Thursday."

"And you will be gone how long?"

"That depends, doesn't it, upon the pleasure of that most gracious lady the Countess Gilda. I may be back in a fortnight, and in that case I will make an engagement with you. We will take a ride together on a trolley-car."

"Agreed," said I.

It was a warm afternoon in the middle of May, and I was lounging in the deserted common room of the Utinam Club when Esper Indiman walked in. We shook hands.

"You landed to-day?" I asked.

"Yes, by the Deutschland."

It was impossible for me to utter the inquiry that rose to my lips. Indiman hesitated just a trifle, then he went on:

"I delivered my letter to the Countess, and she was most obliged. She asked me to stay on, but I had a previous engagement to plead: you remember that I had agreed to go on a trolley-ride on or about this date?"

"I remember," I answered. "Let us interview Oscar, then, upon the subject of dinner; it will be cooler up at Thirty-fourth Street. Afterwards we will have our adventure on the trolley."

Well, we went and had our dinner, but, as you shall see, the trolley-ride had to be indefinitely postponed. We had started down Fifth Avenue, and near Madison Square we ran squarely into Indiman's cousin, George Estes. He was standing near a brilliantly illumined shop-window, and gazing intently at a small object that lay in the hollow of his hand.

"Oh, it's you," he said, absently. Then, with a little laugh, "What do you think of this?" He held out to us a small button fashioned of some semiprecious stone like Mexican opal; it glowed with an elusive reddish lustre.

"It looks almost alive," commented Indiman.

"The vital spark, eh? Well, you're not so far out, for it means a man's life."

"What is it, George?" asked Indiman, gravely.

"Not to-night, old chap. It may be a mistake—probably is. Or say that I was kidding you."

"That won't do, George. You've said both too much and too little. Cab there!" he called, and a hansom drew up to the curb.

"You'll excuse me, Thorp—a family affair." He motioned to the boy to enter; he obeyed, sulkily enough, and they drove off.



VII

The Opal Button

Now, as a matter of fact, I had no part in the affair of the opal button; for on the very next day following our meeting with Estes I came down with typhoid and spent the next two months in the hospital. I saw little of Indiman during that time, but his seeming neglect was fully explained by the story he told me the night I was well enough to get back to 4020 Madison Avenue.

"You remember, of course," began Indiman, "that I went off with Estes that May evening with just an apology to you about a family affair. Really, I knew nothing; but the boy's manner struck me as peculiar, and, while the incident of the opal button was trifling in itself, I was sure that there was something behind it. But when I plumped the question squarely at Estes he had nothing to say except that the jewel had been slipped into his hand while he stood looking into a shop-window. Where it came from he did not know; what it meant he either could not or would not tell. So I had to drop the subject for the time. But it came up again of its own accord four days later, the exact date being May 15th. So much by way of preamble; the story proper I will read from my notes.

"'De Quincey was right, and murder should be a fine art. But the Borgias—only amateurs! The far-famed Aqua Tofana—pooh! Any chemist will put it up for ten cents. Only be careful how you use it. Chemical analysis has advanced somewhat since the day of the divine Lucrezia, and a jury would convict without leaving their seats.'

"'Rather rough on your business, I should think,' said Estes, speaking somewhat thickly, for the port had stopped with him overfrequently of late. 'Is poisoning really out of date?' he continued.

"'As absolutely as crinoline and the novels of G. P. R. James,' answered our host, lightly. But I, who was watching him closely, saw his eyes harden. Estes had said more than one imprudent thing that evening, and this time he had gone too far. I would have to get the boy away somehow.

"There were three of us dining with Balencourt that evening at his chambers in the Argyle—Estes, Crawfurd, and myself; and as usual we had had an excellent dinner, for Balencourt knew how to live. Who was Balencourt? Well, nobody could answer that precisely, but his letters of introduction had been unexceptionable and his checks were always honored at Brown Brothers. Moreover, Crawfurd had met him frequently at the Jockey Club in Paris, and there was his name on White's books for any one to read. A man of forty-five perhaps, clean-shaven, well set up, an inveterate globe-trotter, a prince among raconteurs, and the most astounding polyglot I have ever met. I myself have heard him talk Eskimo with one of Peary's natives, and he had collated some of his researches into Iranic-Turanian root-forms for the Philological Society. But let us go back to our walnuts.

"Crawfurd picked up the thread. 'Then the science of assassination is a lost art,' he said, tentatively.

"'Oh, I did not say that,' replied Balencourt, carelessly. 'There are other ways—better ones.'

"'You mean beyond the risk of detection?'

"'Perfectly.'

"'Eliminating the toxic poisons of all kinds?'

"'If you like.'

"'I doubt it.' said Crawfurd, with a little hesitation.

"'And I deny it,' interrupted Estes, rudely, and stared straight at Balencourt. A quick glance answered his challenge; it was like the engaging of rapiers.

"'Perhaps Mr. Estes desires proof,' said Balencourt, slowly.

"'I do.'

"'Let us say between—'

"'To-night and the 1st of August.'

"'That will suit me perfectly. My passage is booked on the Teutoninc for the following Wednesday.'

"'It is also the day set for my wedding to Miss Catherwood,' said Estes, quietly.

"Balencourt took it admirably. 'So you have obtained the decision at last,' he said, smiling lightly. 'My felicitations.'

"Crawfurd rose to his feet. The jovial flush had strained away from his fat cheeks, and his jaw hung loose and pendulous. 'For God's sake, fellows—' he began, but Balencourt stopped him with a gesture.

"'This is a private matter between Mr. Estes and myself, as he knows full well. So far as you and Mr. Indiman are concerned, call it what you like—a duel, or, better yet, a sporting proposition.'

"'The stakes?' put in Crawfurd, feebly, for, shaken as he was, he could still grasp at the definite idea included in the last-named alternative. Sport and a wager—now he understood.

"'The stakes?' repeated Balencourt. 'Well, they are hardly of a nature that either Mr. Estes or myself can intrust them to the keeping of a third party. But rest assured that the loser will pay; it is a debt of honor.'

"Up to this moment I had kept silence, but now I must make my one try. 'He is but a boy,' I said, leaning my elbows on the table and seeking to plumb the soul-depths in the cold, gray eyes of the man who sat opposite to me. But Balencourt only laughed amusedly.

"'Then he should not assume a man's—'

"'Will you come now, Cousin Esper?' interrupted Estes. He pushed his chair noisily back, and we all rose.

"'You won't wait for coffee?' said our host. 'Just as you please.' He touched the call-button, and Jarman entered to help us on with our top-coats. Par parenthese, how account for the anomaly of this scoundrel of a Balencourt possessing the most perfect of serving-men? There never was anybody who could roll an umbrella like Jarman, and I have been around a lot in my time. After the catastrophe I tried my best to locate him, but without success. He was gone; the pearl had dropped back into the unfathomable depths of ocean. Perhaps he followed his master.

"The door closed behind us, and we three stood in the street. 'A cab?' I queried, and a passing hansom swung in towards the curb.

"'I'd rather walk along with you, Cousin Esper,' said Estes. 'Jump in, Mr. Crawfurd, and we'll pick you up later at the club.'

"Crawfurd nodded and was forthwith driven away. I turned to Estes.

"'What is it, George?' I asked. 'Remember, there's Elizabeth to be considered in this.'

"Now, while Estes is a second cousin of mine, 'Betty' Catherwood is my niece, and so I considered that I had a double right to stick in my oar. But I wasn't prepared for the depth of trouble that I encountered in the glance George Estes turned on me. 'So bad as that!' I finished, lamely.

"'It won't take long in the telling,' began the boy, desperately. 'You remember that after I left Princeton I went to Germany for a two years' course in international law under Langlotz; it was a pet idea of the pater's.'

"I nodded.

"'Well, we all make fools of ourselves at one time or another, and here is where I donned the cap and bells. You have heard'—here he lowered his voice—'of the "Dawn."'

"'The revolutionary society?'

"'Yes; it's the active branch of the "Sunrise League"—the practical work, you know. I joined it.'

"I had nothing to say. George laughed a little dismally and went on:

"'Absurd, wasn't it? I, a citizen of the best and freest country on earth to be making common cause with a lot of crack-brained theorists who would replace constitutional government by the "Lion's Mouth" and the "Council of Ten"—a world ruled by a secret terror. But it seemed all right at the time. What was my life or any one man's life to the progress of civilization? It was only when I came to look at the means apart from the end that I realized the horrible fallacy of it all.'

"'You withdrew, of course.'

"'You don't quite understand. One doesn't withdraw from the "Dawn." He may cease to be identified actively with the propaganda, but he is still subject to be called upon for a term of "service"—that's the ghastly euphemism they use. You remember this and the night I received it?'

"He took a pasteboard box from his pocket and handed it to me. It contained a small, red button, fashioned out of some semiprecious stone resembling Mexican opal.

"'It was the first summons,' continued Estes, 'and within three days I should have been on my way to Berlin—to receive my instructions.'

"'You refused, then?'

"'There was Betty,' said the boy, simply.

"'You must understand,' he went on, 'that this "service" can only be demanded once of a member. He may refuse compliance, if he chooses, but in that case there is a forfeit to be paid, and it becomes due after the third warning.'

"'Well?'

"'Must be paid, you understand. If not by the recalcitrant himself, then by the agent of the "Forty" through whom the summons comes. That makes it clear, doesn't it—Balencourt and his debt of honor?'

"'When did you know—about him, I mean?'

"'Here is the second button. Balencourt slipped it into my hand just before we went out to dinner to-night.'

"'It is incredible. Balencourt is a man and you are but a boy. To take advantage of an act of youthful folly—'

"'You forget that it is his life or mine,' interrupted Estes, quietly.

"'But, George, it is unthinkable. When he knows—but you did tell him—about Betty—'

"'That's just it, old chap. Balencourt asked her to marry him a week ago, just before I received the first red button.'

"The monstrousness of the thing struck me all of a heap. 'The police,' I said, vaguely, but Estes shook his head.

"'It is but postponing the bad quarter of an hour,' he said, gently, 'and I don't think that I could put up with this sort of thing indefinitely. Moreover, it wouldn't be fair to—to Betty.

"'No,' he went on, 'it's better to have a limit set, just as it is now—for at least Balencourt will keep his word. Once past the 1st of August, I am safe.'

"'We'll work within the limit, then,' I said, cheerfully. 'If we three—Crawfurd, you, and I—can't match wits with one polyglot son of the "Dawn," we might as well let the bottom drop out of the Monroe Doctrine and be done with it.'

"We had arrived at the club. For an instant our hands met. 'Not a word to Betty,' he whispered.

"'Of course.' Then we went up-stairs to the pipe-room, where we found Crawfurd sitting gloomily over his fourth Scotch-and-soda. The clocks were striking three when we took Estes back to his apartments, and we both spent the night with him. The issue had been fairly joined, and it was exactly two months and a half to the 1st of August.

"The rest of May passed absolutely without incident, and sometimes it was difficult to believe in the reality of the contest in which we were engaged. Yet we omitted no precaution, and during the whole fortnight Estes was never for a moment out of the sight of either Crawfurd or myself. But no; I'll correct myself there, for we had to allow him an hour and a half every evening with Betty, and I used to mount guard in the street outside, measuring the cold and unsympathetic flag-stones. And no thanks for it, either; indeed, Betty's manner was distinctly top-loftical whenever we chanced to meet, she being a young person of discernment, and perfectly well aware that we were keeping her in the dark about something. But it helped George to forget, and so I counted it in with the rest of the day's work and held my peace.

"As for the rest, there was nothing to be done except to keep a couple of 'shadows' on Balencourt, and we had a full account of his movements by eight o'clock every night—a regular ship's chart worked out with time-stamps and neat entries in red ink, after the accustomed fashion of Central Office men. So May and the first two weeks in June dragged uneventfully along; the period of stress was already half over. Then came Monday, the 15th of June, and with it a little shock. Our man—I mean Balencourt—concluded to disappear, and he did it as effectually as though there were no such thing as a 'shadow' in existence. When the head-sleuth came that night to report his discomfiture, I cut him short in his theorizing and asked for the facts. But there was only the one—Balencourt was certainly non est, and that was all there was to say. Whereupon we banished the 'shadows' to the outer darkness whence they had come and convened our original council of war.

"One thing was plain—the danger of remaining longer in the city. There are so many things that may happen in a crowd, and especially if our friend Balencourt formed part of that unknown quantity. There is always a chance of a chimney-pot tumbling about one's ears or of being run down by some reckless chauffeur. And who is to know the truth? Accidents will happen; they are wilful things and insist upon keeping themselves in evidence. Imprimis, then, to get out of town. But where?

"'Hoodman's Ledge,' began Crawfurd, a little doubtfully, but I caught him up with joyful decision.

"'The very thing,' I said. 'I'll send a wire to the caretaker to-night, and we'll be off by Thursday. I invite you all—for six weeks. Why, of course, George, that includes Betty and her mother; they were to come to me, anyway, in July.'

"Now, Hoodman's Ledge is one of the innumerable small islands that dot the Maine coast above Portland. A few years ago the fancy had taken me to buy the island—it was only three acres in area—and later on I had put up a house, nothing very elegant, but everything for comfort, a model bachelor's establishment. For our present need no better asylum could have offered. The island was small and occupied only by my own domestic establishment. It lay in the bight of Oliver's Bay, quite a mile from the nearest shore, and there was but one other bit of land anywhere around—an uninhabited islet known as 'The Thimble,' that lay a quarter of a mile due east. Surely this isolation promised security. Here, if anywhere, we might snap our fingers at the machinations of M. Balencourt and the mysterious 'Forty.' It would be rather cold off the Maine coast during this unseasonable summer, but there were fireplaces in plenty and stacks of drift-wood. The only real difficulty lay in persuading my estimable sister to cut short her Newport visit and come to me a month earlier than usual.

"Finally, I left it to Betty to manage. 'I can't explain myself any clearer, my dear,' I ended up, rather lamely, 'but it will be better for George. Will you do it?'

"'So you won't trust me with the secret? No; you needn't protest—there is a secret, and I ought to know it. But you have put it so cleverly that I haven't any choice in the matter. "Better for George" indeed! Very good, mon oncle; I'll obey orders. But remember that it will be the worse for you later on, unless you can show good and sufficient reason for this ridiculous mystery. Poor, dear mamma! how she will hate to be plucked up—like an early radish.' And thereupon Miss Betty sailed away with her small head tilted skyward.

"But she did manage it, and by Thursday night the party was actually assembled at 'The Breakers.' There was a sou'easter on that night, but the drift-wood burned stoutly in the wide chimney-piece, with now and then a cheerful sputter as a few stray drops sought to immolate themselves in the green and purple flames.

"'Not so bad—eh, mamma?' said Betty, as she slipped another pillow behind Mrs. catherwood's back and handed her the last volume of 'Gyp,' with the pages neatly cut. And then she actually smiled over at me. I think I am beginning to understand Betty.

"Again I pass over many uneventful days. 'Nothing doing,' as Crawfurd put it, and laisser-faire was a good enough motto for our side of the house. The two children, of course, were blissfully happy.

"Three, four, nearly six weeks, and no sign or sound from M'sieur Balencourt. Not so surprising, after all, seeing that we were living on an island surrounded on all sides by deep water and no land within a mile except that little dot called 'The Thimble.' And while we didn't make any parade of our precautions, Crawfurd and I kept watch and watch, just as we used to do in the old Alert, on the China station, twenty-odd years ago. Moreover, the gardener and my boatman were men who could keep their eyes open and their mouths shut, and, finally, there were the four dogs—two Great Danes, a collie, and 'Snap,' the fox-terrier. It would have been a bold man who sought to visit Hoodman's Ledge, uninvited, during that particular month and a half.

"It was the morning of the 1st of August, and I was lounging on the piazza, Crawfurd being on duty at the time. The warm weather had come at last. The air was so soft and delightful that the scientific review I had been reading slipped from my hand and I gave myself up to indolence, gazing lazily at the white pigeons that were trading about the lawn, between the boat-house and a rustic pavilion overlooking the tennis-court. One bird I marked in particular, admiring his strong and graceful sweeps and dips as he circled about, possessed, as it were, with the pure joy of motion. I followed him as he sank down on a long slant to the lawn, swift as a bolt from the blue; then I rubbed my eyes in amaze. It was a pigeon of snowy whiteness that an instant before had been flying free; it was a coal-black nondescript that now fluttered feebly once or twice and then lay still on the gravelled path, close to the stone sun-dial. I ran down the steps and bent over the pitiful thing. Pfui!—the bird was but a charred and blackened lump of dead flesh. There was a disagreeable odor of burned feathers in the air. Mechanically my eye fell on the sun-dial; there was a spot the size of a silver dollar on the side of the pedestal where the stone had crumbled and disintegrated, as though it had been placed at the focus of some immensely powerful burning-glass. I stepped behind the sun-dial and looked out to sea. And there, in line with the pedestal of the dial and the dead bird on the path, lay 'The Thimble.'

"Now, as I have said, 'The Thimble' was a rocky islet only a few rods in extent, but densely wooded with spruce and blue-gum. The general shape of the rock was that of a lady's thimble; hence the name. Rather a picturesque object in the seascape, but, of course, utterly valueless except for occasional picnic uses—a bit of No Man's Land whose purpose in the economy of nature had hitherto remained unfulfilled. But now?

"I went back to the piazza and caught up a pair of stereo-binoculars that were lying on the table. There, shining like a star through the close curtain of green that veiled 'The Thimble,' was the projecting end of a highly polished tube of steel. And even as I gazed a man's face peered out as though in the act of sighting—Aram Balencourt!

"Then I understood. The tube was the means of projecting some enormously powerful heat-beam whose nature must be akin to that of the so-called X-ray. The article I had been reading not ten minutes ago—what was the title?—'Radium, the Wizard Metal'—that incomprehensible substance, forever sending forth its terrible emanations, yet never diminished by even the ten-thousandth part of a grain—a natural force whose properties and functions were but imperfectly understood, even by the learned men who had succeeded in isolating it, an agent of such enormous potency that an ounce or two might serve to put a battle-ship out of commission—a couple of pounds and the universe itself were endangered. Even now from that steel tube, sighted so carefully on the pedestal of the sun-dial, billions of ions might be rushing, invisible to the eye, but certain death to whatever of animal existence they chanced to encounter. There was the pigeon lying dead on the walk.

"'Do hurry, George,' called out Betty's thin, sweet treble. She stood at the entrance to the pavilion and waved a tennis-racquet impatiently.

"'Coming,' was the cheerful response, and Estes turned the corner of the house. He took the gravelled path at full speed. In an instant or two at the farthest he would be passing between the sun-dial and the dead pigeon, in line with those deadly radiations.

"We had been playing a little single-wicket earlier in the day, and a cricket-ball lay on the wicker table at my hand. I could not have uttered a word or a cry to save my life—to save his—but instinct held true. With a full, round-arm sweep the ball left my hand, catching the boy squarely on the forehead. He fell within his stride.

"Betty was with us on the instant, but I seized and held her despite her struggles. Naturally, she thought I had gone mad. Then I looked over again at 'The Thimble,' just in time to see a sheet of palest-colored flame shoot up from the island. The dense mass of green foliage seemed to wither and consume away within the tick of a clock. Through the glass I caught a glimpse of a dark figure that rolled down to the water's edge, clutching feebly at the shifting shingle. Perhaps a log, after all—it lay so still.

"An instant later 'The Thimble' disappeared in a cloud of grayish vapor, the dull sound of an explosion filled the ear, and the ground under our feet trembled. There was nothing to be seen, even with the glass, save a light scum covering the water and some fragments of charred tree branches. But the air about us was full of a fine dust that powdered Betty's hair, as though for a costume ball, and made me cough consumedly.

"Naturally, there were quite a number of explanations to make to Miss Betty after George had been resuscitated—a slightly disfigured hero, but still in the ring—but I spare you. The dear girl listened quietly, but at the end she began to tremble, and I won't say but that she cried a bit. It doesn't matter if she did, and I think we all began to feel a little queer when we came to think it over. However, it WAS over—no possible doubt about that.

"'One thing I don't understand,' said Crawfurd. 'There were to be three warnings, and Estes only received two of the red buttons.' Whereupon Betty blushed, and drew a little package from her pocket.

"'It came last night directed to George,' she said, 'but I forgot to give it to him. It broke open in my pocket and it contained this.' She held out to us the third red button. That was decent of Balencourt—to have given the last warning.

"There is only one possible hypothesis to account for the catastrophe. Balencourt was dealing with a terrible force, whose nature was but partially understood, even by science. He had intended to use it to fulfil the vengeance of the 'Dawn' but something had happened, and in an instant the monster had turned and rended its master. That is all that we can know.

"Two days later George and Betty were married, for they stuck to the original date in spite of the fact that George, with a lump on his forehead as big as the cricket-ball itself, did not make a particularly presentable bridegroom. I carried an umbrella at the function whose incomparable rolling was remarked upon by all. Need I say that it was the same umbrella that Balencourt's man, Jarman, had manipulated for me that fateful evening when we dined at the Argyle. I shall never unroll that umbrella, even at the cost of a wetting. To me it is a memento."

"There's melodrama for you," said Indiman, a little shamefacedly as he finished. "But one feels differently, you know, about taking chances where a nice girl like Betty is concerned. Let me see; it's still early. Do you feel up to taking that long-deferred ride on a trolley-car? Good! We'll take the cross-town over to Eighth Avenue and get into the heart of it at once."

"That's an unlucky number," said Indiman, as we boarded a car. "Sixteen hundred and twenty-four—the sum of the units is equal to thirteen."

"You're going to lose some money," I suggested.

"The tip points that way," he replied.



VIII

The Tip-top Tip

Do you know Abingdon Square? It is a small, irregularly shaped triangle of asphalt situated on the lower West Side, and at the intersecting-point of Eighth Avenue and Hudson Street. The houses that front upon it have seen better days. Many of them are now the quarters of cheap political clubs or centres of foreign revolutionary propaganda. It is a neighborhood that has finally lost all semblance to gentility and has become frankly and unreservedly shabby. A square, mind you, and not a park, for there is neither blade of grass nor tree in all of its dreary expanse. Half a block to the north lies a minute gore of land surrounded by an iron fence, and here are flowers and greenery upon which the eye may rest and be satisfied. But in Abingdon Square proper there is only the music-stand, that occupies the middle of the miniature plaza, a hideous wooden structure in which one of the city bands plays on alternate Sunday afternoons during the summer. However, open space counts in the city, and the air circulates a trifle more freely through the square than it does in the side streets—at least, that is the opinion of the neighborhood people, and they flock there on a hot night like seals at a blow-hole. Even the submerged tenth must come up to breathe now and then. During the dreadful passage of a hot wave from the West one may count them by the dozens, coatless and even shirtless wretches, lying prone on the flag-stones like fish made ready for the grid. Occasionally, a street-cleaning "White Wings" will be compassionate enough to open a fire-hydrant, under pretence of flushing the gutters, and then, for a few minutes, there is joy in Abingdon Square. Women line the curb, cooling their feet in the rushing flood; the men light their pipes and contentedly watch the children as they paddle about. There is the echo of mountain brooks in the gush of the water as it roars from the hydrant. With eyes tight closed one may conjure up the phantasma of green leaves waving and of meadows knee-deep with lush grasses and starred with ox-eyes. Such is Abingdon Square on a night in early August when first the dog-star begins to rage.

Now my friend Esper Indiman is a social philosopher; life in all its phases interests him tremendously. Consequently, he likes to take long rides on trolley-cars. He calls them his vaudeville in miniature, and sometimes the performance is amusing—I acknowledge it freely. But to-night the actors were few and the play dull. I began to yawn. The car, one of the Eighth Avenue line bound down-town, swung round a curve into Abingdon Square, and Indiman touched my arm.

"What's going on over there?" he said.

Although it was not a concert night, there was a crowd around the band-stand. It looked as though some one was haranguing the assemblage from the vantage-point of the music pavilion—a local political orator or perhaps a street preacher. "Salvation Army," I suggested.

"Shall we take a look?" I nodded, and we alighted and pushed our way to the front.

It was a young man who stood there, rather a nice-looking chap, with a broad forehead from which the thin, fair hair fell away in a tumbled wave. He was attired in evening clothes, assuredly an unusual sight in Abingdon Square, where they do not dress for dinner, and the expression upon his countenance was that of recklessness tempered with a certain half-humorous melancholy. "One dollar," he repeated, as we came within sight and hearing. "Do I hear no other bid? One dollar, one dollar. Will any gentleman make it a half?"

"I'll give fifty for your skull alone," spoke up a youngish, sallow-faced man who stood directly opposite the stand. "On condition," he added, in a lower tone, "that the goods are delivered at Bellevue before the end of the week. Foot of Twenty-sixth Street, you know."

The young man smiled with a pathetic quizzicality. "Now, doctor," he said, reproachfully, "there's no use in going over that ground again. I made the terms of the sale perfectly plain, and there can be no deviation from them."

"Well, if that's your last word," retorted the unsuccessful bidder, "I'll say good-evening."

He turned to Indiman, who stood at his elbow. "A fakir," he growled, disgustedly. "Now, I'll leave it to you, sir."

"If you will acquaint me with the essential particulars," said Indiman, "I shall be most happy to pronounce upon them."

"In two words. This cheap josher has been offering to sell himself, out and out, to the highest bidder. I make him a cash offer and he takes water."

"Pardon me," interrupted the young man in evening dress, "but your bid is plainly for what the students in medical colleges call a 'subject.' Now, I expressly disclaimed any intention of terminating my material existence at any fixed period in the future. On the contrary, it is for the purpose of prolonging my life that I am driven to this extraordinary procedure. It is myself, my talents, and my services of which I desire to dispose. My skull, in which you seem to take such an interest, goes, of course, with the bargain. But I do not guarantee immediate delivery."

"Your services," sneered the student of medicine. "May I inquire into their nature and nominal cash valuation?"

"I am an experienced leader of the cotillon," answered the young man in evening clothes, with a sweet and serious dignity.

"Umph!"

"I play a fair hand at Bridge, and have an unexceptionable eye for matching worsteds."

"G-r-r!"

"That about sums up my list of accomplishments, but I dare say that I could learn to dig, for I have my full complement of limbs. Finally, a rare and pretty talent for losing money and a penchant for the unlucky side of everything."

"Well, gentlemen," declared the student of medicine, with a snort, "it's quite evident that we're all playing the fool together. I wish you a very good-evening, and the devil take all crawfishers." And with that he marched off, evidently in high dudgeon. A little ripple of laughter swept over the upturned faces of the crowd. "One dollar," repeated the young man, his voice full of a polite weariness. "Do I hear no other bid? I offer myself, a human chattel, at absolute sale; no reservations; warranted sound and kind; no objection to the country; not afraid of the Elevated railway."

"Five dollars," said a voice at the rear, and a short, stout man, with little, black, beadlike eyes, held up his hand to identify his bid. "Joe Bardi," said a man to his neighbor. Both turned interestedly.

"And who is Joe Bardi?" inquired Indiman, blandly.

"Business of shipping sailors. There's big money in it, they say."

"Ah, yes, a crimp—isn't that what they call them?"

"Right you are, mister. A hard one, too. It'll be a sharp man that does for old Joe Bardi."

"Five dollars," came again from the squat figure with its ratlike eyes, and the young man in evening dress paled a little. He had over-heard the colloquy between Indiman and the native Abingdonian, and it is difficult to regard with equanimity the prospect of a trip before the mast—to China, let us say. In an American ship, too, more shame to us that it must be said.

But the young man was thoroughbred. He had sat down to play a desperate game with Fortune, and he could not withdraw with the cards on the table.

"Five dollars," he repeated, mechanically. "Five dollars. What am I offered? Five dollars."

"Want me to buy you dat, Mame?" said a half-grown boy of the unmistakable tough type. "Whatjer soy? Five cases for dat mug! And Tuesday ain't bargain-day, nuther."

"Well, it looks like thirty cents," said Mame, critically. "In Chinese money, too—thirty yen-yen. What you say, John?" The crowd laughed again.

"Five dollars."

"Five dollars," repeated the young man, and there were little drops of sweat on the broad, fair forehead. "Five dollars, five dollars. Do I hear no other bid? Five dollars—going—going—"

"Six."

It was Indiman who spoke, and this time the crowd gaped in good earnest. An indescribable emotion possessed for an instant the face of the young man in evening clothes. Then he fell back upon his first manner, half-petulant, half-mocking. "Six dollars I am bid," he announced, briskly, and looked straight at the shipping agent.

Joe Bardi hesitated. "And a half," he said, tentatively, as an angler who feels the mouth of the fish that he fears may be insecurely hooked.

Indiman capped the bid promptly. "Seven dollars," he said.

The crimp scowled. "Make it eight," he retorted.

"Ten."

The Italian hesitated again. This had the appearance of a contest, and he was not of the sort who love a fight for its own sake. But his cupidity had been powerfully aroused. There was a pretty profit in advance money to be made if he could get this young fool's signature on the ship's papers of the Southern Cross, outward bound for Shanghai, on the morrow. He must make at least another try. It might be that the intrusive stranger from the silk-stocking district was only amusing himself and would presently withdraw.

"Twelve," he said, and "fifteen," answered Indiman.

The crowd laughed, and Joe Bardi's vanity was sorely touched. It was not pleasant to be badgered in this unseemly manner while engaged in beating one's own preserves. Discretion forsook him forthwith.

"Twenty-five," he bellowed.

"Fifty."

"A hundred, and be damned to you!"

"Two hundred."

There was a pause; the crowd held its breath in silent and joyous expectancy. Joe Bardi passed a hand over his wet forehead and pulled irresolutely upon his cigar. A severe-looking old man expressed his entire disapproval of the proceedings. "It's against the Constitution," he said, loudly. "How about the Fourteenth Amendment? Well, the number doesn't matter anyway. Officer, I call upon you to stop this unlawful and outrageous farce. A human being selling himself on the auction block! The slave-market set up again in this Christian city of New York! It's a crime against the Constitution."

But the policeman was a prudent person, and as yet he had seen no cause to interfere. The proceedings were unusual, no doubt, and they might be against the Constitution; he wouldn't like to say. It was none of his business anyway; HE went by the code.

"Bah!" snorted the old gentleman, and rushed away to find a city magistrate.

"Two hundred dollars," repeated the young man in evening clothes. "Two hundred dollars. What am I bid? Going, going—"

The shipping agent made a hasty mental calculation—there was no profit in the transaction at anything over his last bid of an even hundred. But he was tempted to go a little further and run up the price on his adversary, thus punishing him for interfering in a man's private business. Very good, but suppose the stranger suddenly refused to follow the lead; then it would be Joe Bardi himself who would be mulcted. Revenge would be sweet, but it was too dangerous; he would stop where he was.

"Two hundred, two hundred—going, going—" The crowd began to banter the crimp.

"Lift her again, Joe," called out one voice. "Open up that barrel of plunks you've got stored away in your cellar," exhorted another counsellor. "A nice, white slave—that's what you're needing in your business," advised a third. But Joe Bardi kept his eyes on the ground and said nothing.

"Gone," said the young man in evening clothes.

Indiman took four fifty-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to the young man. The latter glanced at the notes and stuffed them carelessly into his waistcoat-pocket. Then, turning to Indiman:

"Sir," he said, with a profound seriousness, "I am now your property. Ah! Pardon me—"

Like a cat he had sprung between Indiman and the crimp. With a dexterous upward fling of his arm the knife in the Italian's hand went spinning into the air. This was something that came within the policeman's accustomed sphere, and he took immediate charge of Mr. Joe Bardi. It was all done in a most methodical manner, and ten minutes later we were free to depart. A "cruiser" cab rattled by and the three of us squeezed in.

"To the Utinam Club," ordered Indiman.

Seated at a table in the big dining-room of the club, we drank a formal cocktail to our better acquaintance.

"But I am afraid that you have made a bad bargain," said the young man to Indiman.

"Frankly, now, I doubt if I can be made to pay even three per cent on the investment. That's no better than a government bond and not half so safe."

I have already collected one satisfactory dividend," said Indiman, courteously. "That was cleverly done—to force the knife out of his hand and into the air."

"It's a part of the Japanese science of defence without weapons," said the youth, blushing ingenuously. "Jiu-jitsu, you know. I took some lessons of a chap in Tokio."

"Moreover, there is your story," continued Indiman. "Will you favor me with some particulars regarding yourself and the circumstances leading up to our late meeting? The situation was an unusual one, and the explanation should be interesting."

"On the contrary," answered the young man, with a faint smile, "my narrative is of the most commonplace character imaginable, save only for the final chapter. But judge for yourself.

"My name is Luke Harding, and, so far as I know, I have not a single blood relation living—at least, none nearer than a third cousin. Two years ago I inherited my paternal estate. It was too small to support me in the manner of life to which I had been accustomed, and at the same time it was large enough to effectually deaden any inclination towards real work. As an inevitable consequent, I became a speculator. Little by little my fortune has disappeared in the abyss of stock gambling; now it is gone entirely. To add to my misfortunes, my apartments were entered last night by burglars and literally cleaned out. I must have been drugged, for when I awoke this morning, with a bad headache, I could remember nothing of what had happened; there were only results to speak for themselves. The loot had been complete; the scoundrels had even carried off my ordinary garments, leaving me—what exquisite irony!—only this suit of evening clothes wherewith to cover my nakedness. Being somewhat sensitive to the proprieties, I was obliged to remain within doors until darkness fell, and I spent the time meditating upon my future course of action. As I have said, I have no relatives to whom I could apply, and my friends had already taxed themselves beyond reason in my behalf. It was clear, then, that I was born unlucky, and I concluded that I had no longer any right to a separate and independent existence. To one of my temperament suicide is a difficult proposition. Finally, I lit upon the idea which you have just witnessed in execution. A healthy, intelligent young man—surely there must be some market for his exclusive services? Fortunes used to be made in the African slave-trade.