CHAPTER VII

TEN O'CLOCK

Curtis had seized the opportunity while Hermione was in her room before

dinner to rub the blood-stained sleeve of the overcoat with a wet

cloth. He had not, of course, been able to eradicate the ghastly dye

wholly from the thick material, but the garment was now wearable, at

any rate by night, and he had little fear of attracting attention as he

crossed the brilliantly lighted foyer of the hotel.

Passing out by the Fifth Avenue exit, he began the second cigar of the

evening, and stood in the porch for a moment to collect his faculties.

The time was five minutes of ten, and he had been married about an hour

and a half. He had just finished his second dinner, and for the

guerdon of companionship with the charming and gracious girl whom fate

had figuratively thrown into his arms he would cheerfully have tackled

a third meal without any personal qualms as to subsequent indigestion.

But, joking apart, he was married. That was the overwhelming feature

of life, a feature which dwarfed every other circumstance much as

grimly gigantic Windsor Castle dominates the puny town beneath its

walls. The mere tying of the matrimonial knot had not troubled him.

He was heart whole and fancy free then--or, not to strain the metaphor,

he could have boasted those attributes a little earlier in the

evening--and he recked nothing of the really serious legal disabilities

incurred by the adventure. But, like every other young man, his

thoughts had turned sometimes to a young woman--not any special young

woman, but that nebulous entity which is necessarily bound up with the

notion that some day, somewhere, somehow, a man will encounter the maid

in whose limpid eyes lurks his destiny. He had pictured the desirable

one in day-dreams, and, merely because of his violent antipathy towards

the Eurasian element in the Far East, the dulcissima had appeared

invariably as a tall, slender creature, with the lightest of flaxen

hair and the grayest of gray eyes. Now, some alchemy devised by the

magician spirit of New York had fashioned his ideal, though slender,

not so tall, and she owned a wealth of brown hair, hair that shone and

glistened in every changing light, while her eyes were either blue or

violet, just as one happened to catch the glint of them. And she had

fascinating ways, too, which the lady of his fantasy could never have

displayed, or he would not have abandoned the vision so readily. When

she smiled, it was with lips and eyes in unison. When she spoke he

heard harmonies not framed in mere words, whereas the other fair dame

was unquestionably a deaf mute.

Indeed, while his glance was dwelling, to all outward semblance, on the

passing traffic of one of New York's busiest thoroughfares, he was

admitting to himself that he was deeply, irrevocably, in love, and the

knowledge was almost stupefying. To one of Curtis's temperament it

seemed to be a wildly fanciful thing that he should have yielded so

swiftly. Two hours ago he had not seen Hermione, did not even know her

name, whereas now he breathed it with devout reverence, though, with a

perverseness seldom attached to such circumstances, the amazing fact

that she was his wife formed a stubborn barrier against which the flood

of new-born desire must rage in vain. For, above all else, he held

dear his plighted word. He knew now that the marriage offered an

almost insuperable obstacle to any effort on his part to win the girl's

affections. In her despair she had trusted him, and he awoke with a

guilty start to consciousness of that winsome face being wrung with a

new terror if for one instant she had reason to suspect him of other

than the altruistic motives he had professed in giving her the

protection of his name.

Perhaps, in time--well, he was done now with moon-madness, and he

stepped briskly down the avenue, firm set in purpose to risk everything

for his wife's sake, and let the future rest in the lap of the gods.

This, be it noted, was his first stroll in New York. The night was

fine and clear, for Rafferty's diagnosis of "a touch of frost in the

air" was becoming justified, and no thoroughfare in the world could

lend itself more completely to the romance of that walk than the

wonderful promenade which leads from Central Park to Madison Square.

With few exceptions, the nineteenth century plutocrat has been ousted

from that section of Fifth Avenue; a giant democracy has reared its own

palaces in the shape of hotels and office buildings which pierce the

skies, stores which rival the proudest mansions of Venice in its heyday

and Florence under Lorenzo Medici. Never in after life did Curtis

forget that intimate glimpse of the grandeur and wealth of his native

place. Coming up the harbor by daylight he had been overwhelmed by New

York's proud defiance of the limits imposed by nature, but now, partly

veiled by the mystery of night, the city displayed a feminine beauty at

once entrancing and elusive.

At a cross street he paused for a moment to admire a gem of

architecture wrenched bodily from its Cinque Cento setting by

Brunelleschi, and transplanted to this new land to serve the opulent

need of a vendor of precious stones and metals. In the strip of dark

blue firmament visible above the admirably proportioned cornice he

caught sight of two planets flaming high in the west, and in close

juxtaposition. Necessity had made him somewhat of an astronomer, and

he had studied Chinese astrology as a pastime. He recognized these

lamps of the empyrean as Mars and Venus, and, up-to-date American

though he was, drew comfort from that favoring augury. Then, in

stepping from the roadway to the sidewalk, he stumbled over a heavy

curb, and laughed at the reminder that star-gazing did not reveal

pitfalls before unwary feet.

The incident knocked some of the poetry out of him, and it was a quite

normal and level-headed young man who walked into the Central Hotel

soon after ten o'clock, and found Detective Steingall's gaze resting on

him contemplatively from the neighborhood of the cigar counter.

Before rejoining the waiting trio in the office, Steingall was

interviewing the youth in charge of the tobacco and current literature

department.

Such story as the boy had to tell was hardly in favor of Curtis.

"The gentleman came here to buy some stamps, and he and a man who was

reading in the cafe said something to each other in a foreign lingo,"

ran the recital. "No, I don't think I would recognize French if I

heard it--American is good enough for me--but there was no argument,

nothing in the shape of a quarrel. The Englishman spoke twice, and the

other fellar three times."

"Mr. Curtis is an American," Steingall explained.

"Well, he doesn't talk like one, anyhow," pronounced young New York--in

this instance, of a pronounced Jewish type--which is perhaps the most

dogmatic juvenility extant.

Then Curtis entered. He glanced around, and seemed to be gratified by

the discovery that the hotel had lost its inquisitive crowd. He did

not realize that every newspaper office in New York was alive with

conjecture of which he was the chief figure, and that telegraph and

telephone were carrying his name and fame across the length and breadth

of the country.

"Hello!" he said, hailing Steingall affably, "you here still? Has

anything turned up with regard to those scoundrels and their

automobile?"

"Not a word--about them," said the detective.

The purveyor of cigars and news was positively awe-stricken. He was

aware of Steingall's repute as the "man with the microscopic eye," and

he fully expected that the "sleuth's" penetrating organ had already

discerned the word "murderer" branded on Curtis's shirt front.

"What time will you want me in the morning?" went on Curtis, looking in

the direction of the office. He was really thinking about the mislaid

key; not for an instant did he imagine that by that simple gesture he

had almost eradicated from Steingall's mind the germ of doubt which

events had certainly conspired to plant there.

"I want you now," came the somewhat startling answer.

"Eh, why?"

"Some friends of yours are anxious to see you. They are in the private

office over there," and Steingall thrust out his chin in the indicative

manner which the Romans used to call _annuens_.

"Oh, Howard Devar, I suppose. But who else?"

"Come along, Mr. Curtis. You can stand a pleasant surprise, I am

sure," and, with that, the detective led the way across the hall,

leaving the youthful Jew in a maze of conflicting emotions, for,

according to all the rules of the game as played in the dime novel, the

tec' should have sprung on his prey like a tiger. Another person whose

nervous system received a shock was the super-clerk. He, like the boy,

knew of the network of suspicion which had closed on Curtis during the

past two hours, and he had watched the cordial meeting between the two

men with something akin to stupefaction.

But neither of these onlookers had grasped the really essential fact

that Steingall did not say one word as to the hue and cry which

resulted from Curtis's strange disappearance. The detective was a

master of the art of restraint. In his own way, he applied to his

profession the maxim of Horace--_Ars est celare artem_.

And he had his reward in that cry of dismay, almost of horror, which

burst from Curtis's lips when he heard the true name of the murdered

man.

Uncle Horace's seemingly maladroit interruption (it raised him to a

pinnacle of esteem in Devar's mind from which he was never dislodged

subsequently) prevented any striking development until a glad-eyed

waiter had entered and taken an order for four highballs. Even Mrs.

Curtis admitted the need of a stimulant, but Curtis steadily refused

any intoxicant, even the mildest. Steingall endured the delay

stoically. He actually held back a sufficient time to allow Horace P.

Curtis to empty his glass with one well-sustained effort. Then he came

to close quarters with Napoleonic directness.

"I take it you assumed that the dead man was the Jean de Courtois

mentioned in the marriage license?" he said.

He gave that question pride of place in pursuance of a queer thought

which had leaped into his brain during the enforced interval. But, if

he had been thinking hard, so had Curtis, and the latter had outlined a

plan of action which was fated to disrupt Steingall's, much as a

harmless looking percussion cap may interfere with the smug torpor of a

powder magazine.

"Yes," said Curtis, with the judicial nod of a man who states a

comparatively obvious fact.

"Have you that license?"

"No."

"Where is it?"

"Reposing in the writing-desk of the Rev. Thomas J. Hughes, a minister

of the Protestant Episcopal Church, who lives in 56th Street, near

Seventh Avenue."

"And what is it doing there, pray?"

"I used it. I have married Lady Hermione Grandison."

Steingall permitted himself the rare luxury of a semi-hysterical break

in his voice.

"What!" he cried. "Is she the daughter of the Earl of Valletort?"

"Precisely, though you astonish me by the ease with which you connect

two such widely different names. Such knowledge usually implies a

close acquaintance with the amiable foibles of the British aristocracy."

Certainly it was well that Mrs. Horace P. Curtis had partaken of a

tonic in the shape of a highball.

"Well!" she gasped.

For once she was practically speechless, but she gave the astounded

Devar a pitiless glance which said plainly:

"Wait till I get my breath, young man, and I'll take some of the

cocksureness out of you!"

Steingall soon gathered his scattered wits.

"Are you really speaking seriously, Mr. Curtis?" he asked.

"Quite seriously."

"Was this marriage an arranged affair?"

"Oh, yes. The marriage itself was prearranged."

"Candidly, I don't understand you."

"No? I am not surprised. But I do not wish you to remain under any

misapprehension as to the true state of affairs. Lady Hermione

Grandison meant to marry a French music-master named Jean de Courtois.

I thought, thought honestly but mistakenly, that the man was dead, and,

as it was of vital importance that her ladyship should get married

to-night, I offered my services as Jean de Courtois' substitute, and

they were accepted."

"Am I to take that statement as literally true?"

"Absolutely."

"You were not acquainted with the lady earlier?"

"No."

"Never seen or heard of her?"

"No."

"How did you come to engage in this--this freak marriage, then?"

Curtis measured Steingall with a contemplative eye.

"You are called on to assimilate a novel idea, and, in consequence, are

choosing your words badly," he said. "It was not a freak marriage.

Although I may have broken the laws of the State of New York by using a

license issued to some other person, Lady Hermione and I are legally

husband and wife, and no power on earth can dissolve the union without

the expressed consent of one or both of us."

"Do you mean me to accept the bald theory that you first learnt the

lady's name and address from a document discovered in another man's

overcoat, that you went to her house, told her the man was dead, and

suggested that you should become the bridegroom in his stead?"

"As an adjective, 'bald' is--well, bald. But you've got the affair

sized up accurately otherwise."

"Oh, the shameless hussy!" broke in Mrs. Horace vehemently.

Steingall turned on her with a certain heat of manner.

"Do not interrupt, madam, I beg," he exclaimed.

"Better reserve judgment, aunt, until you have met my wife," said

Curtis. He spoke gently enough. He had appraised his relatives almost

at a glance, and was sufficiently broad-minded to allow for the natural

distress of a respectable middle-aged lady who had been whirled, as it

were, out of her wonted environment, and rapt into the realms of

necromancy and Arabian Nights.

Steingall swept aside this intermission with the emphatic hand of a

cross-examining lawyer.

"You say it was 'of vital importance that the lady should be married

to-night.' What does that imply?"

"Do you wish me to put it in different language?"

"I want to know what the vitally important reason was. I presume she

furnished one?"

"Ah, but how does that concern the New York police, Mr. Steingall?"

"Every element in this business concerns us. The license was in

Hunter's possession--was he bringing it to someone named de Courtois?

Or was he masquerading under an alias?"

"Answering your second question, I imagine not. I have the best of

reasons for believing that Jean de Courtois exists. I wish now I

hadn't. Don't you see, Steingall, I am in a deuce of a fix? I married

the lady under a misapprehension. She might have really preferred this

fellow, de Courtois."

Steingall liked a joke as well as any man in New York, and was not at

all averse from chaffing some of his less gifted colleagues when their

obtuseness or faithful adherence to the letter of instructions

permitted a criminal to befool them; but he resented the levity of

Curtis's tone now, though, deep in his heart, he felt that he liked the

man.

"You don't seem to realize the peculiarly awkward position in which you

stand," he said, with due official gravity.

"On the contrary, I feel it acutely. What am I to say to my wife----?"

"I am not wrung with agony over the lady's sensitiveness," broke in the

detective dryly. "A good many people believe that you were concerned

in this murder. There are not lacking circumstantial details which

warrant that view. I am not saying too much when I tell you that some

men, in my shoes, would arrest you forthwith."

Curtis looked at Steingall quizzically, and even laughed with a

whole-hearted appreciation of the jest.

"Lucky for me I have fallen into the hands of a sensible person," he

said.

"Allow me to remark," put in Uncle Horace solemnly, "that Mr. Steingall

has won my unstinted admiration by the way in which he has conducted

this inquiry."

Devar was beginning to enjoy himself. He alone was able to estimate

Curtis at his true worth; even that astounding marriage was losing some

of its bizarre attributes since Curtis had begun to talk about it.

"Good for you, Mr. Curtis, senior," he crowed delightedly. "If Indiana

knew what it really wanted it would run you for Governor."

Steingall nearly became angry. Indeed, it is probable that he would

have expressed his sentiments in strong language were it not for the

presence of Mrs. Curtis.

"Now, sir," he said, with a perceptible stiffening of manner, "let us

have done with pretense. You strike me as being sane, yet you ask me

to believe that you have acted like a lunatic. Well, let it go at

that. Who is this Jean de Courtois, whom Lady Hermione Grandison was

to have married to-night?"

"My wife tells me that he is a French music-master whom she hired to

marry her in order that she might escape from a pestiferous person

named Count Ladislas Vassilan," replied Curtis with cool directness.

"She brought the obliging individual with her from Paris for the

purpose, and paid him a thousand dollars as a sort of retaining fee.

From what little I have seen of her, she impresses me as a charming

girl wholly without experience of a world which, though not altogether

wicked, is nevertheless callous and self-seeking. Among other

drawbacks, she embarked on a fantastic project with a most disingenuous

belief in the good faith of a Frenchman. Now, I admire France as a

nation, but where women are concerned, I distrust Frenchmen as a race,

and I suspect--mind you, I am merely guessing--but I repeat that I

suspect the honesty of Monsieur Jean de Courtois in this matter. There

was no earthly reason why he should not have married Lady Hermione some

weeks ago, but it is clear that he has used every artifice to delay the

ceremony until to-night--and, it may be found when we learn the facts,

was prepared to put it off once more till to-morrow or next day. Why?

In my opinion, the reason is not far to seek. The Earl of Valletort

and Count Ladislas Vassilan were crossing the Atlantic hot in pursuit

of the unwilling bride. They arrived in New York to-night, and were so

well posted in events, both past and prospective, that they headed

straight for the flat in which Lady Hermione was living with her maid.

Naturally, I am keenly interested in the causes which led up to a

peculiarly brutal and uncalled-for murder, and, as my wife's husband, I

have the further incentive of hoping to bring to justice certain of her

persecutors whom I cannot help connecting indirectly with the crime of

which I was, I suppose, one of the most credible and intelligent

witnesses. Now, before I was aware that such a winsome creature

existed as the present Lady Hermione Curtis, I had estimated the

murderers as Hungarians, two of them at any rate, since I am hardly

prepared to vouch for the chauffeur. Count Ladislas Vassilan is a

Hungarian. The poor fellow who was killed, though his name is American

enough, spoke French with a pure accent. One of the Hungarians spoke

French, fluently but vilely. Jean de Courtois is admittedly a

Frenchman. I am not a detective, Mr. Steingall, but as a plain man of

affairs I am forced to the conclusion that there has seldom been a

similarly mysterious crime in which certain lines of inquiry thrust

themselves more pertinently on the imagination. To sum up, I advise

you to find Jean de Courtois--unless, indeed, he, too, has been

killed--and you will be in close touch with the origin of the whole

ugly business."

"Good egg!" cried the irresistible Devar. "It's a pity you were not

with us on the _Lusitania_, Mr. Steingall, or you would realize that

when John D. rears up on his hind legs, and talks like that, there is

nothing more to be said."

"Is Lady Hermione a pretty girl?" demanded Mrs. Curtis eagerly. Her

democratic soul was rejoicing in the discovery that her nephew's wife

did not lose her title because of the marriage. Of course, no one ever

before heard of such folly as this matrimonial leap in the dark, but,

once taken, there was satisfaction in the thought that the bride was an

earl's daughter. Moreover, she had read of such queer goings on among

the British Aristocracy that a wedding at sight was a comparatively

venial offense.

Curtis assured his aunt that Hermione was the most beautiful and

fascinating person he had ever met, and Steingall listened to the

eulogy with a grinning rictus of jaw. In the whole course of his

professional experience he had never encountered anything on a par with

this capricious blend of comedy and tragedy.

Of course, it did not escape his acute brain that Curtis was right in

assuming that the _clou_ of the situation lay with Jean de Courtois.

Dead or alive, the Frenchman must be found, and found quickly. The

extraordinary story told by Curtis, if true--and the detective was

persuaded that this curiously constituted young man was not trying to

hoodwink him in any particular--pointed a ready way toward

investigation. The unfortunate journalist, Hunter, was about to enter

the Central Hotel when he was attacked so mercilessly. As a

consequence, some knowledge of de Courtois was probably awaiting the

first questioner at the inquiry counter. What a whimsical incongruity

it would be if he were told that the French music-master around whom

the inquiry pivoted was within arm's length all the time! He had

actually turned to the door in order to summon the hotel clerk when

that worthy himself knocked and entered.

"The Earl of Valletort is here, and wishes to have a word with you, Mr.

Steingall," he said.

The detective's present grim conceit ran somewhat to the effect that if

he remained long enough in the Central Hotel he would accumulate

sufficient evidence to electrocute three criminals, at least, and send

others to the penitentiary, but he merely nodded and said:

"Show his lordship right in."

He was conscious of a dramatic pause in the conversation which had

broken out between the others. Once again had Mrs. Curtis been

rendered dumb by the shock of an unforeseen development. Devar, who

was having the night of his life, leaned back against the wainscot,

Uncle Horace peered hopelessly into an empty tumbler, but dared not

suggest a second highball, while Curtis, after one sharp glance at the

detective, whom he credited with having arranged this surprise in some

inexplicable way, thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets and

awaited the advent of Hermione's father with a calmness that he himself

could hardly account for. Hitherto, his adventurous life had been made

up of strenuous effort tempered by the Anglo-Saxon phlegm which

disregards dangers and difficulties. Prolonged strain of an emotional

nature was new to him. He understood, but did not apply the knowledge,

that when the human vessel is full to the brim with excitement, the

earth may rock and the heavens roll together in fury without the power

to add one more drop of gall or distress to the completed measure. At

that instant, if the Earl of Valletort had been accompanied by the

embodied ghosts of his ancestors, Curtis would have viewed the

procession with unconcern.

The Earl, a handsome slightly built, erect man of fifty, hawk-nosed,

keen-eyed, with drooping mustache and carefully arranged thin gray

hair, glanced at Curtis as he might have regarded any other stranger.

"I have disposed of my friend," he said to Steingall, "and I hurried

back here on off-chance that you might still be engaged in----"

"Before your lordship enters into details, allow me to introduce Mr.

John D. Curtis," said Steingall, silently thanking the fates which had

brought about a meeting so opportune to his own task if embarrassing to

its chief actors.

"Mr. John D. Curtis, the--the person who conspired with my daughter to

contract an illegal marriage!" barked the Earl, instantly dropping the

repose of Vere de Vere.

"John Delancy Curtis, at any rate," said Curtis gravely. "As your

son-in-law, may I remark that a few minutes' conversation with a lawyer

will enable you to correct two misstatements in the rest of your

description? There was no conspiracy, and the ceremony was

unquestionably legal."

The Earl gave him one searching and envenomed look, and appealed

forthwith to the detective.

"I charge that man with abduction and personation," he cried, and his

voice grew husky with wrath. "There can be no gainsaying the facts.

My daughter, it is true, had arranged a marriage with a Monsieur Jean

de Courtois. It was provisionally fixed to take place this evening at

eight o'clock, but, by some means not known to me, the marriage license

came into the hands of this admitted law-breaker, and he evidently

persuaded a foolish and impetuous girl to accept him instead of de

Courtois. I am not an authority on the laws of the State of New York,

but I stake my reputation on the belief that a flagrant offense has

been committed against the social ordinances of any well regulated

community. I now call on you to arrest him, or, if official process is

needed, to direct me to the proper authority."

"Have you any proof of the charge?" said Steingall, who had not failed

to observe Curtis's air of unconcern under the Earl's fiery

denunciation.

"Proof in plenty," came the snarling answer. "I have seen the license

and the signed register, and Monsieur de Courtois is known to me

personally. Besides, have you not this rascal's own admission?"

"Why omit the equally damning evidence of conspiracy?" demanded Curtis.

"What do you mean, you, you----"

"Interloper. How will that serve? It was you who spoke of conspiring,

though I grant you seem to have dropped that item of the indictment.

But Mr. Steingall, as representing the law, should hear the full tale

of villainy. If your lordship will produce de Courtois's letters,

cablegrams, and wireless messages to yourself and your confederate,

Count Ladislas Vassilan, he will begin to appreciate the true bearing

of a rather intricate inquiry."

It was a chance shot, but it went home. Curtis had not spent ten years

in counteracting Manchu scheming and duplicity without arriving at

certain basic principles in laying bare the methods of double-dealing,

and the Earl of Valletort was manifestly disturbed by this cold

analysis of facts which he imagined were known to an exceedingly

limited circle in New York.

But he had the presence of mind to waive aside Curtis's allegations as

unworthy of discussion.

"I address myself to you," he said to Steingall. "Have I made my

request clear, or shall I repeat it?"

"Have you any objection to answering a few questions, my lord?" said

the detective.

"None whatsoever."

"When did you and Count Vassilan arrive in New York?"

"At twenty minutes after eight to-night."

"How did you ascertain what was happening with regard to your daughter?"

"By inquiry."

"Of course, but from whom?"

"From the minister who performed an unauthorized ceremony."

"How did you know where to go so promptly to secure information?"

"I was kept informed of my daughter's movements by agents."

"Who were they?"

"Their names will be given at the right time."

"The right time is now."

"You are not a magistrate. I take it you are a police officer."

"Your lordship may feel well assured on that point. It is exactly

because I am a police officer that I press for a reply. Your grievance

against Mr. John D. Curtis is much more of a matter for a civil than a

criminal court. I guess he has broken the law, but the machinery for

putting it in motion is not under my control. I am investigating a

murder, and every word you have said confirms my belief that your

daughter's contemplated marriage was the indirect but none the less

certain cause of the crime. Now, Lord Valletort, who were your inquiry

agents?"

"Ha!" muttered Uncle Horace.

It was a simple enough ejaculation, but it served to drive home the

nail which the detective's outspoken declaration had hammered into the

Earl's startled consciousness. Here, in truth, was a new and

disturbing phase of the matrimonial problem contrived by Hermione,

aided and abetted by that mischievous scoundrel, Curtis. Still, he was

not one to be driven easily into a corner.

"You practically refer me to a lawyer for advice; I take you at your

word," he said, with a quick return to the self-controlled attitude of

an experienced man of the world.

"You decline, then, to answer the only vitally important question I

have put to you?" said Steingall.

"I decline to answer that question until I have consulted someone

better able--or shall I say, more willing?--to instruct me as to the

speediest means of punishing a malefactor."

"The noble lord is disqualified," broke in Devar. "This is the second

time since the flag fell that he has refused his fences."

"If you interrupt again I shall turn you out of the room, Mr. Devar,"

cried Steingall vexedly.

"But, dash it all, Steingall, somebody must see that John D. has fair

play. He only swerved once, and then for a single stride, while he----"

"I shall not warn you a second time," and Devar knew that the detective

meant what he said, and kept quiet.

"May I ask where the police headquarters are situated?" said the Earl

in the frostiest tone he could command at the moment.

"At the corner of Center Street and Grand," said Steingall

indifferently. He was about to add the unpleasing fact--unpleasing to

Lord Valletort, that is--that the man on duty at the Detective Bureau

would certainly refer an inquirer to him, Steingall, when the clerk

reappeared.

"A patrolman has brought a note for you," he said, handing Steingall a

sealed letter, which the detective opened instantly after glancing at

the superscription. It was from the police captain, and ran:

"Count Vassilan has just left the Waldorf-Astoria in a taxi. Clancy is

driving."

Steingall's face betrayed no more expression than that of the Sphinx,

though inwardly he was consumed with laughter; he himself was chief of

the Bureau, and Clancy was his most trusted assistant! Certainly, the

gods were contriving a spicy dish for the news-loving inhabitants of

New York.