Thieves' Wit (1916-17) by Hulbert Footner (1879-1944) Author of "Jack Chanty," "The Huntress," etc.

* Copyright, 1916, by Hulbert Footner

MY first case! With what an agreeable thrill a professional man repeats the words to himself! I was well along in the thirties before I got my start, and had lost a deal of hair from my cranium. This enabled me to pass for ten years older when I wished; and at the same time, with a little assistance from my friend Oscar Nilson, the wig-maker, I could still make a presentable figure of youth and innocence.

   During my earlier days I had been a clerk in a railway freight-office, a poor slave with only my dreams to keep my heart up. My father had no sympathy with my aspirations to be a detective. He was a close-mouthed and a close-fisted man; but when he died, after having been kept on scanty rations for years, my mother and I found ourselves fairly well off.

   I promptly shook the dust of the freight office from my feet and set about carrying some of the dreams into effect. I rented a little office on Fortieth Street at twenty dollars a month, furnished it discreetly, and had my name painted in neat characters on the frosted glass of the door — "B. Enderby," and no more. Lord, how proud I was of the outfit! I bought a fire-proof document-file for cases, and had some note-paper and cards printed in the same neat style:

   You see, I wished to avoid the sensational. I was not looking for any common divorce-evidence business. Since I had enough to exist on, I was determined to wait for important, high-priced, kid-glove cases.

   While I waited I studied crime in all its aspects. I worked, too, at another ambition which I shared with a few million of my fellow creatures — to write a successful play. I started a dozen and finished one. I thought it a wonder of brilliancy then. I have since learned better.

   It was the play-writing that brought me my first case. I used to haunt the office of a certain prominent play-broker, who was always promising to read my play and never did. One afternoon, in the up-stairs corridor of the building where this broker had her offices, I came face to face with Irma Hamerton.

   Nowadays Irma is merely a tradition of loveliness and grace. Theatergoers of this date see nothing like her to rejoice their eyes. Then, to us humble fellows, she stood for the rarest essence of life, the ideal, the unattainable — call it what you like. Tall, slender, and dark, with a voice that played on your heart-strings, she was one of the fortunate ones of earth.

   She had always been a star, always an idol of the public. Not only did I and my friends never miss a show in which she appeared, but we would sit up half the night afterward talking about her. None of us had dreamed of seeing her face to face and close to.

   I met her at a corner of the corridor, and we almost ran into each other. I forgot my manners entirely. My eyes almost popped out of my head. I wished to fix that moment in my life forever. Imagine my confusion when I saw that she was crying, that glorious creature! Actually the tears were running down her soft cheeks, like any common woman's. Do you wonder that a kind of convulsion took place inside me?

   Seeing me, she quickly turned her head; but it was too late. I had already seen the drops stealing like diamonds down her cheeks. I stared at her like a clown, and like a clown I blurted out, without thinking:

   "Oh, what's the matter?

   She didn't answer me, of course. She merely hurried faster down the hall and turned the next corner.

   When I realized what I had done, I felt like butting my silly head through one of the glass partitions that lined the corridor. I called myself all the names in my vocabulary. I clean forgot my own errand in the building, and went back to my office muttering to myself in the streets, like a lunatic.

   I was glad no one dropped in. In my mind I went over the scene of the meeting a hundred times, I suppose, and made up what I ought to have said and done-still more ridiculous, I expect, than what had happened. What bothered me was that she would think I was just a common fresh guy. I couldn't rest under that; so I started to write her a note. I wrote half a dozen and tore them up. The one I sent ran like this — I blush to think of it now:

   The instant after I had posted this letter I would have given half I possessed to get it back again. It suddenly occurred to me that it would only make matters worse. Either it would seem like an impertinent attempt to pry into her private affairs, or a bold move to follow up my original rudeness. A real gentleman would not have said anything about Miss Hamerton's tears, I told myself. My cheeks grew hot, but it was too late to recall the letter. I was thoroughly miserable. I did not tell any of my friends what had happened.

   That night I went alone to see her play. Lost in her part, of course, and hidden under her make-up, she betrayed nothing. There was always a suggestion of sadness about her, even in comedy. When that deep, lovely voice trembled, a corresponding shiver went up and down your spine.

   I thought about her all the way home. My detective instinct was aroused. I tried to figure out what could be her trouble.

   There are only four kinds of really desperate trouble — ill health, death, loss of money, and unrequited love. To look at her in the daylight, without make-up, was enough to dispose of the first. It was said that she had no close relatives, therefore she couldn't have lost any recently. As for money, surely, with her earning capacity, she had no need to trouble about that.

   Finally, how could it be an affair of the heart? Was there a man alive who would not have cast himself at her feet if she had turned a warm glance in his direction? Rich, successful, and adored as she was, I had to give it up.

   About five o'clock the next afternoon the surprise of my life was administered to me. I received a large, square, buff-colored envelope with a brown border, addressed to me with brown ink in immense, angular characters. On opening it my hand trembled with a delicious foreboding of what was inside, even though better sense was telling me not to be a fool. It contained a card on which was written: Miss Irma Hamerton will be glad to see Mr. B. Enderby if it will be convenient for him to Call on her at the Hotel Rotterdam at noon on Thursday. For a moment I stared at the written words, dazed. Then I went up in the air. I did a sort of war-dance around the office. Finally I rushed out to the best shop in the neighborhood to get a new suit before closing-time. Thursday was the next day!

   I HAD never been inside that most exclusive of exclusive hotels, the Rotterdam. I confess that my knees were a little infirm as I went through the marble entrance and passed before the nonchalant, indifferent eyes of the handsome footmen in blue liveries.

   "Ah, they're only overgrown bellhops!" I told myself encouragingly, and fixed the marquis behind the desk with a haughty stare.

   Walking in a dream, I presently found myself being shown into a corner room high up in the building. I was left there alone, and I had a chance to look around. I had never seen anything like it, except on the stage. It was decorated in what I think they call the Empire style, with walls of white paneled wood, picked out with gold, and pretty, curiously shaped furniture. Everywhere there were great bunches of pink roses, picked that morning, you could see, with petals still moist. It smelled as I thought heaven might.

   That was all I had time to take in when the door opened, and she entered. She was wearing a pink, lacy sort of thing that went with the roses. She didn't mind me, of course. She was merely polite and casual; but just the same I could see that she was deeply troubled about something. Trouble makes woman's eyes big, and that makes a beautiful woman twice as beautiful.

   She went to the point as straight as a bullet.

   "I suppose you are wondering why I sent for you?"

   I confessed that I was.

   "It was the heading on your letter-paper. What do you mean by 'confidential investigator' — detective?"

   Something a little better than an ordinary detective, I hope."

   She switched to another track.

   "Why did you write to me?"

   This took me by surprise.

   "There was no reason — except what the letter said," I stammered.

   Several other questions followed, by which I saw she was trying to get a line on me. I offered her references. She accepted them inattentively.

   "It doesn't matter so much what other people think of you, she said. "I have to make up my own mind about you. Tell me more about yourself."

   "I'm not much of a hand at the brass instruments," I said. "Please ask me questions."

   This seemed to please her. After some further inquiries she said simply:

   "I wrote to you because it seemed to me from your letter that you had a good heart. I need that perhaps more than detective skill. I live in a blaze of publicity. I am surrounded by flatterers. The pushing, thick-skinned sort of people force themselves close to me," and the kind that I like avoid me, I fear. I am not sure whom I can trust. I am afraid — indeed, I feel certain — that if I put my business in the hands of the regular people it would soon become a matter of common knowledge."

   Her simplicity and sadness affected me deeply. I could do nothing but protest my honesty and my devotion.

   "I am satisfied, she said at last. "Are you very busy at present?"

   "Tolerably," I said with a busy air. It would never have done to let her think otherwise.

   "I would like you to take my case," she said with an enchanting note of appeal; "but it would have to be on the condition that you will attend to it yourself. I should have to ask you to agree not to delegate any part of it to even the most trusted of your employees."

   This was easy, since I didn't have any.

   "You must, please, further agree not to take any steps without consulting me in advance; and you must not mind — perhaps I might call the whole thing off at any moment. But of course I would pay you."

   I quickly agreed to the conditions.

   "I have been robbed of a pearl necklace," she said with an air of infinite sadness.

   I did not need to be told that there was more in this than the ordinary case of an actress's stolen jewels. Irma Hamerton didn't need that kind of advertising. She was morbidly anxious that there should be no advertising in this.

   "It was a single strand of sixty-seven black pearls, ranging in size from a currant down to a small pea. They were perfectly matched, and each stone had a curious, bluish cast, which I believe to be quite rare. As jewels go nowadays it was not an exceptionally valuable necklace, but it was worth about twenty-six thousand dollars, and represented my entire savings. I have a passion for pearls. These were exceptionally perfect and beautiful. They were the result of years of search and selection. Jewelers call them blue pearls. I will show you what they looked like."

   She went into the adjoining room for a moment, returning with a string of dusky, gleaming pearls hanging from her hand. They were lovely things. My unaccustomed eyes could not distinguish the blue in them until she pointed it out. It was like the last gleam of light in the evening sky.

   "The lost necklace looked exactly like this," she said.

   "Had you two?" I asked in surprise.

   She smiled a little.

   "These are artificial."

   I suppose I looked like the fool I felt.

   "A very natural mistake," she said. "Some time ago my jeweler advised me not to wear the real pearls on the stage, so I had this made by Roberts. The resemblance was so perfect that I could scarcely tell the difference myself. It was only by wearing them that I could be sure."

   "By wearing them?" I repeated.

   "The warmth of my body caused the real pearls to gleam with a deeper luster."

   "Lucky pearls! I thought.

   "They almost seemed alive," she went on with a kind of passionate regret. "The artificial pearls show no change, of course; and after a time they have to be renewed."

   I asked for the circumstances of the robbery.

   "It was at the theater," she said. "It occurred on the night of February 14."

   "Six weeks ago!" I exclaimed in dismay. "The trail is cold!"

   "I know," she admitted. "I do not expect a miracle."

   I asked her to go on.

   "I had an impulse to wear the genuine pearls that night. I got them out of the safe-deposit vault in the afternoon. When I saw the real and the artificial together I was afraid of making a mistake, so I made a little scratch on the clasp of the real strand. I wear them in the first act. I have to leave them off in the second act, when I appear in a nurse's uniform, and in the third, when I am supposed to be ill. In the fourth act I wear them again. That night I wore the real pearls in the first act. I am sure of that, because they were glow ing wonderfully when I took them off — as if there was a tiny fire in each stone. I put them in the pocket of the nurse's uniform, and carried them on the stage with me during the second act. In the third act I was obliged to leave them in my dressing-room, because in this act I am shown in bed; but I thought they would be safe in the pocket of the dress I took off. The instant I returned to my dressing-room I got them out and put them on, suspecting nothing wrong. It was not until after the final curtain that, upon taking them off, I was struck by their dulness. I looked for my little mark on the clasp. It was not there. I found I had two strings of artificial pearls."

   When she finished, I asked her the obvious questions.

   "Did you have any special reason for wearing the genuine pearls that night?"

   "None, except that I loved them. I loved to handle them. They were so alive! I was afraid they might lose their life if I never wore them."

   Somehow I was not fully satisfied with this answer; but for the present I let it go.

   "Was any one with you when you got them out of the safe-deposit box?" I asked.

   "I was quite alone."

   "Did any one know you were wearing them that night?"

   "No one."

   "Were there any strangers on the stage?"

   "No. At my request, my manager is very particular as to that. I have been so much annoyed by well-meaning people that no one is admitted. In this production the working force behind is small. I can give you the name of every person who was on the stage that night."

   "Has any one connected with the company left since then?"

   "No."

   "Who has the entrée to your dressing-room while you are on the stage?"

   "Only my maid; but she is not expected to remain there every moment. Indeed, I remember seeing her watching the scene from the first entrance that night."

   "During which time your room was unlocked?"

   "Very likely; but the door to it was immediately behind her."

   "Have you any reason to suspect her?

   "None whatever. She's been with me four years. Still, I do not except her from your investigation."

   "Does she know of your loss?

   "No one in the world knows of it but you and I."

   "And the thief," I added.

   She winced. I was unable to ascribe a reason for it.

   "Do you care to tell me why you waited six weeks before deciding to look for the thief?" I asked her as gently as possible.

   "My jeweler, who is also an old friend, has secured three more blue pearls," she answered quickly. "He has asked me for the necklace, so that he can add them to it. I cannot put him off much longer without confessing that I have lost it."

   "Shouldn't we tell him that it has been stolen? I asked, surprised."

   She energetically shook her head.

   "Jewelers have an organization for the recovery of stolen jewels," I persisted. "The only way we can prevent the thief from realizing on the pearls is by having the loss published throughout the trade in the usual way."

   "I can't consent to that, she said with painfully compressed lips. "I want you to make your investigation first."

   "Do you mind telling me who is your jeweler?"

   "Mr. Alfred Mount."

   "If you could only tell me why he must not be told! I insinuated."

   She still shook her head.

   A woman's reason, she said, avoiding my glance.

   "You know, of course, how much you increase my difficulties by withholding part of your confidence?"

   There was a little tremble in her lovely throat.

   "Don't make me sorry I asked you to help me," she said.

   I bowed.

   "See what you can do in spite of it," she added wistfully.

   I NEED not take the space to put down all my early reasoning on the case. I had plenty to think about, but every avenue my thoughts followed was blocked sooner or later by a blank wall. Never in my whole experience have I been asked to take up such a blind trail — and this was my first case, remember. Six weeks lost beyond recall! It was discouraging.

   I narrowed myself down to two main theories — either the pearls had been stolen by experienced specialists after long and careful plotting, or they had been picked up on impulse by a man or woman dazzled by their beauty. In this latter case the thief would most likely hoard them and gloat over them in secret.

   Not the least puzzling factor in the affair was my client herself. It was clear that Miss Hamerton had been passionately attached to her pearls. She always spoke of them in almost a poetic strain; yet there was a personal note of anguish in her grief which even the loss of her treasure was not sufficient to explain.

   Strangest of all, she seemed to be more bent on finding out who had taken them than on getting them back again. She had waited six weeks before acting at all, and now she hedged me around with so many conditions that the prospect of success was slight indeed.

   I had an intuition which warned me that if I wished to remain friends with her, I had better be careful whom I accused of the crime. It was a puzzler, whichever way you looked at it. However, an investigator must not allow himself to dwell on the hopelessness of his whole tangle, but must set to work on a thread at a time. Whichever way it turned out, for some time to come I was to have the delight of seeing her frequently.

   I was there again the next afternoon. This day, I remember, the room was fragrant with the scent of great bowls of violets. The lovely, dark-haired mistress of the place looked queenly in a dress of purple and silver. As always when there were a number of people around, she was composed in manner; one might say a little haughty.

   There was quite a crowd. It included a middle-aged lady, a Mrs. Bleecker, a little overdressed for her age, and envious-looking. She, it transpired, was Miss Hamerton's companion or chaperon. The only other woman was a sister star, a handsome blond woman older than Miss Hamerton, very affectionate and catty. I have forgotten her name.

   The men were of various types. Among them I remember the editor of a prominent newspaper, a well-known playwright, and Mr. Roland Quarles. The latter was Miss Hamerton's leading man. He looked quite as handsome and young off the stage as on, but seemed morose.

   Miss Hamerton introduced me all around in her casual way, and left me to sink or swim by my own efforts. None of the people put themselves out to be agreeable to me. I could see that each was wondering jealously where I came in. However, since I had a right to be there, I didn't let it trouble me.

   This was life, I told myself, and I kept my eyes and ears open. I was not long in discovering that these "brilliant" people chattered about as foolishly as the humblest I knew. Only my beautiful young lady was always dignified and gracious. She let others do the talking.

   I stubbornly outstayed them all, though the men were very reluctant to leave me in possession of the field. As for Mrs. Bleecker, I saw in her eye that she was determined to learn what I had come for. However, Miss Hamerton coolly disposed of her by asking the companion to entertain a newcomer in the next room while she talked over a business matter with me.

   These people wearied her a little. She relaxed when they had gone.

   "I had you shown right up, she said to me," because I want my friends to become accustomed to seeing you. I hope you did not mind."

   I replied that I was delighted.

   "I suppose I ought to account for you in some way, she went on, "or their curiosity will run riot. What would you suggest?"

   "Oh, let them suppose that I am a playwright in whose work you are interested."

   She accepted the idea. How delightful it was for me to share secrets with her!

   My particular purpose in making this call was to urge her again to take the jeweler into her confidence. I pointed out that we could hope to do nothing unless we blocked the thief from disposing of the pearls. At length, very reluctantly, she consented, stipulating, however, that the jeweler must be told that she had just discovered her loss. I explained to her that we should have to look back to make sure that the jewels had not already been offered for sale, but on this point she stood firm.

   She gave me a note of introduction to Mr. Alfred Mount. I delivered it the following morning.

   At this time Mount's was the very last word in fashion. It was a smallish store, but richly fitted up, on one of the best corners of the avenue, up near the cathedral. Every one of the salesmen had the air of a younger son of the aristocracy. They dealt only in precious stones — none of your common stuff, like gold or silver.

   I was shown into a private office at the back — a gem of a private office, exquisite and simple; and in Mr. Alfred Mount I saw that I had a notable man. One guessed that he would have been a big man in any line. So far I knew him only as one of the city's leading jewelers. By degrees I learned that his interests were wide-spread.

   He was a man of about fifty, who looked younger, owing to his flashing dark eyes and his lips, full and crimson as a youth's. In a general way he had a foreign look, though you couldn't exactly place him as a Frenchman, an Italian, or a Spaniard. It was only, I suppose, that he wore his black hair and curly beard a little more luxuriantly than a good American. His manner was of the whole world.

   My first involuntary impression was dead against the man. He was too much in character with the strange little orchid that decorated his buttonhole.

   Later I decided that this feeling was only my Anglo-Saxon narrowness. True, he kept a guard on his bright eyes, and his red lips were firmly closed; but do we not all have to train our features? He was a jeweler who earned his bread by kotowing to the rich. My own face was not an open book, yet I considered myself a fairly honest fellow.

   He read my letter of introduction, which stated that I would explain my business to him. Upon his asking what that was, I told him quietly that Miss Hamerton had been robbed of her pearls.

   He started in his chair, and pierced me through and through with those brilliant black eyes.

   "Give me the facts!" he snapped.

   I did so.

   "But you?" he said impatiently. "I don't know you."

   I offered him my card, and explained that Miss Hamerton had retained my services.

   He was silent for a few moments, chewing his mustache. It was impossible to guess what was going on behind the mask of his features. Suddenly he started to cross-question me like a criminal lawyer. How long had I been in business? Was I accustomed to handling big cases? Had I any financial standing? What references could I give? And so on, and so on.

   My patience finally gave way under it.

   "I beg your pardon," I said stiffly. "I recognize the right of only one person to examine me in this way, and that is my client."

   He pulled himself together and, I must say, apologized handsomely. Like most big men, he was often surprisingly frank.

   "Forgive me," he said winningly. "You are quite right. I am terribly upset by your news. I forgot myself. I confess, too, I am hurt that Miss Hamerton should have acted in this matter without first consulting me. I am a very old friend of hers."

   I was glad that she had done so, for something told me that I never should have got the job from him. I did not tell him how she had come to engage me, though he gave me several openings to do so.

   "I am not a narrow man," Mr. Mount went on in his best manner, "and I will not hold it against you. Only show me that you are the man for the job, and I will aid you with all my power."

   I accepted the olive-branch.

   "I spoke too hastily myself," I returned. "I shall be glad to tell you anything you want to know about myself."

   We basked in the rays of mutual politeness for a while. Still, that instinctive dislike of the man would not quite down. He asked no more personal questions.

   "Have the police been notified?" he inquired.

   "Miss Hamerton imposes absolute secrecy," I replied.

   "Quite so," he said quickly. "That is wise."

   I had my doubts of it, but I didn't air them.

   "Have you any clues?" he asked.

   "None as yet."

   "What do you want me to do?" "To publish the loss through the channels of the trade, with the request that if any attempt is made to dispose of the pearls we should instantly be notified. The owner's name and the circumstances of the robbery must be kept secret."

   "Very good, he said, making a memorandum on a pad. "I will attend to it at once, and discreetly. Is there anything else I can do?"

   "I hoped that with your knowledge of jewels and the jewel market you could give me something to work on," I said.

   "All I know is at your command," said he.

   He talked at length about jewels and jewel-thieves, but it was all in generalities. There was nothing that I could get my teeth into. He gave it as his opinion that the pearls were already on their way abroad, perhaps to India.

   "Then you think that the robbery was engineered by experts?"

   He spread out his expressive hands.

   "How can I tell?"

   We parted with mutual expressions of good-will.

   "I expect I shall have to come often to you for help," I said at leaving.

   "I shall expect you to," he replied earnestly. "I want you to. I and my establishment are at your service. Let no question of expense hamper you."

   I found, later, that he really meant this; but I was reluctant to draw on him, nevertheless.

   When I saw Miss Hamerton the next day I asked her a question or two concerning Mr. Alfred Mount, wishing to find out if he was really such an old he friend as he made out.

   "I have always known him, she said simply. "That I happen to buy things from him is merely incidental. He was a friend of my father's, and he is a very good friend to me. He has proved it more than once."

   "Then why were you so reluctant to take him into your confidence?" I was tempted to ask; but I reflected that since she had already refused to tell me, I had better keep my mouth shut and find out otherwise.

   "Mr. Mount asked if we had notified the police," I said, merely to see how she would take it.

   I regretted it. Her expression of pain and terror went to my heart. She was no longer the remote and lovely goddess, but only a suffering woman.

   "Oh, you did not, you have not —" she stammered.

   "Certainly not," I said quickly. "You told me you didn't wish it."

   She turned away to recover herself. What was I to make of it? One would almost have said that she was a party to the theft of her own jewels; and yet, only a few minutes later, she was begging me to discover the thief.

   "It tortures me!" she cried. "The suspense, the uncertainty! This atmosphere of doubt and suspicion is suffocating. I wish I never had had any pearls! I wish I were a farmer's daughter or a mill-girl! Please, please settle it one way or the other. I shall never have a quiet sleep until I know!"

   "Know what?" I asked quietly.

   But she made believe not to have heard my question.

   I SPENT the next two or three days in quiet work here and there. The most considerable advance I made was in picking an acquaintance with McArdle, the property-man of Miss Hamerton's company. Watching the stage door, I discovered that the working force behind the scenes frequented the back room of a saloon on Sixth Avenue for lunch after the show. The rest was easy. By the third night McArdle and I were on quite a confidential footing.

   From him I heard any amount of gossip. McArdle was of the garrulous, emotional type, and very free with his opinions. The star was the only one he spared. From his talk I soon got the principal members of the company fixed in my mind.

   Besides Mr. Quarles there were George Casanova, the heavy man — a well-known actor, but, according to McArdle, a loud-mouthed, empty braggart — and Richard Richards, the character heavy, whom the property-man described as a silly old fool devoured by vanity. Among the women the next in importance after the star was Miss Beulah Maddox, the heavy lady, who, in the opinion of my amiable informant, giggled and ogled like a sewing-machine girl, and she forty if she was a day.

   Discreet questioning satisfied me that McArdle was unaware that a robbery had been committed in the theater. If he didn't know it, certainly it was not known.

   Out of bushels of gossip I sifted now and then a grain of valuable information. He informed me that Roland Quarles was in love with the star. For some reason that I could not fathom he was especially bitter against the young leading man. He would rail against him by the hour, but there seemed to be no solid basis for his dislike.

   "Does she favor him?" I asked.

   "Nah!" he said. "She's got too much sense. He's a four-flusher, a counter-jumper, a hall-room boy! From the airs he gives himself you'd think he had a million a year. He's a tail-ender with her, and he knows it. He's sore!"

   "Who seems to be ahead of him?" I asked with strong curiosity.

   "There's a dozen regulars," said McArdle. "Two Pittsburgh millionaires, a newspaper editor, a playwright, and so on. But if you ask me, the jeweler is ahead in the running."

   "The jeweler?" I said, pricking up my ears.

   "Spanish-looking gent with whiskers," said McArdle. "Keeps a swell joint on the avenue. Mount, his name is. He's a wise guy; does the old family-friend act, see? He's a liberal feller. I hope he gets her!"

   This bit of information gave me food for thought. I felt that perhaps it explained my intuitive dislike of Mount. The thought of that old fellow presuming to court the exquisite Irma made me hot under the collar.

   The next morning I called at the store of Roberts, the manufacturer of artificial pearls. This place was as well known in its way as Mount's, since Roberts had sued the Duke of Downshire, and the public had learned that the pearls which his grace had presented to Miss Van Alstine, on the occasion of their marriage, were phony. It was quite a fancy establishment, but, like its wares, on a much less expensive scale than Mount's.

   I fell in with a sociable and talkative young salesman who, at my request, showed me a whole trayful of pearl necklaces. Among them I spotted another replica of Miss Hamerton's beautiful string.

   "What's this?" I asked carelessly.

   "Blue pearls," he rattled off. "Latest smart novelty — a great hit. Mrs. Minturn Vesey had one sent up only yesterday. She wore it to the opera last night."

   "There isn't such a thing really as a blue pearl, is there?" I asked idly.

   "Certainly! These are copies of genuine stones, like all our stock. Some time ago a customer sent in the real necklace to have it copied, like they all do. This was such a novelty that Mr. Roberts had a pattern made and put them on sale. It's a winner!"

   "I wouldn't want a thing everybody had bought," I said.

   "I don't mean that everybody has," he said; "but just a few of the very smartest. It's too expensive for everybody — seven hundred and fifty. The original is priceless."

   "How many have you sold?"

   "About ten."

   "Who else bought them?"

   He reeled off a string of fashionable names.

   "That's only six."

   "The others were sold over the counter."

   The affable youngster was a little aggrieved when I left without buying.

   Mr. Mount was both surprised and deeply chagrined when I told him that exact replicas of Miss Hamerton's pearls were to be had at Roberts's by anybody with the price. He didn't see how he could stop it, either. It appeared that there was a standing feud between Roberts and the fashionable jewelers, in which Roberts had somewhat the advantage, because the regular trade was obliged to employ him. No one else could make such artificial pearls.

   With Mr. Mount's assistance I had the sales of the replicas quietly traced. Nothing resulted from this, however. All but two of the necklaces had gone to persons above suspicion. These two had been sold over the counter, one to a man, one to a woman, and as the transactions were more than two months old I could not get a working description of the buyers.

   On another morning I went into Dunsany's, the largest and best-known jewelry-store in America, if not in the world, and asked to see some one who could give me some information about pearls. I was steered up to a large, pale gentleman wearing glasses, very well dressed, of course. I heard him addressed as Mr. Frear. I put on my most youthful and engaging manner.

   "Look here," I said, "I expect you'll want to have me thrown out for bothering you, but I'm in a hole."

   My smile disarmed him.

   "What can I do for you?" he asked politely.

   "I'm a fiction-writer," I said. "I'm writing a story about blue pearls, and somebody told me there was no such thing. Was he right?"

   "Sometimes the black pearl has a bluish light in it," said Mr. Frear; "but it would take an expert to distinguish it. Such pearls are called blue pearls in the trade."

   "I suppose you haven't got one you could show me?" I said.

   He shook his head.

   "They rarely come into the market. There is probably only one place in New York where they can be found."

   "And that is?"

   "Mount's. Mr. Alfred Mount has a hobby for collecting them. Naturally, when a blue pearl appears, it is generally offered first to him. You'd better go to see him. He knows more about blue pearls than any other man in the world."

   "One more question," I said, fearing lest I might wear out my welcome. "In my story I have to imagine the existence of a necklace of sixty-seven blue pearls ranging in size from a currant down to small pea, all perfectly matched, perfect in form and luster. If there was such a thing, what would it be worth?"

   When I described the necklace I received a mild shock, for Mr. Frear was visibly affected by some sudden emotion. Whether it was surprise, or consternation, or something else, I could not decide. The muscles of his large, pale face never moved, but I saw his eyes contract in a curious way. He smiled stiffly.

   "I couldn't say," he said. "Its value would be very large — almost fabulous."

   "Please give me some idea," I said, "just for the sake of the story."

   He moistened his lips.

   "Oh, say half a million dollars. That would not be too much."

   I swallowed my astonishment, thanked him, and made my way out.

   Here was more food for cogitation!

   Why should a few idle questions throw the pearl expert at Dunsany's into such visible agitation? I had to give it up. Perhaps it was only a twinge of indigestion, or a troublesome corn. Anyhow I lost sight of it in the greater discovery. Half a million dollars for the necklace, and Miss Hamerton had told me that buying it pearl by pearl it had cost her about twenty-six thousand!

   MEANWHILE there was an idea going through my head that I had not quite nerve enough to disclose to my client. It must be remembered that though I was making strides, I was still green at my business. I was not nearly so sure of myself as my manner might have led you to suppose.

   To my great joy, Miss Hamerton herself broached the subject. One afternoon she said, apropos of nothing that had gone before:

   "I'm sorry now that I introduced you to my friends; and yet I do not see how I could have seen you without their knowing it."

   "Why sorry?" I asked.

   She went on with charming diffidence — how was one to resist her when she pleaded with such a modest and winning air?

   "I have thought — if it would not tie you down too closely — that you might take a minor rôle in my company."

   My heart leaped, but of course I was not going to betray my eagerness if I could help it.

   "As to your friends having seen me," I said, "that doesn't make any difference. Disguise is part of my business."

   "Then will you?" she eagerly asked.

   I made believe to consider her suggestion doubtfully.

   "It would tie me down," I said.

   "Oh, I hope you can arrange it," she insisted.

   "Could it be managed without exciting comment in the company?"

   "Easily. I have thought it all out. I have an assistant stage-manager, who plays a small part. By increasing his duties behind, I can in a perfectly natural way make it necessary to engage somebody to play his bit. I shall not appear in the matter."

   "I have had no experience," I objected.

   "I will coach you."

   "It would be better to put in an operative."

   "Oh, no! No one but you!"

   "Well, I'll manage it somehow," I said.

   She sighed with relief, and started that moment to coach me.

   "You are a thug, a desperate character. You appear in only one scene, a cellar dimly lighted, so you will not be conspicuous from in front. You must practise speaking in a throaty, husky growl."

   In order to prolong the delightful lessons, I pretended to be a little more stupid than I was. I was engaged the next day but one through a well-known theatrical agency, where Miss Hamerton had instructed me to apply for a job. Just how she contrived it I can't say, but I know I came into the company without anybody suspecting that it was upon the star's recommendation. In the theater, of course, she ignored me.

   Two nights later I made my début. Mine was such a very small part that no one in the company paid any attention to me, but for me it was a big occasion, I can tell you. In the way of business I have several times faced death with a quieter heart than I had upon first marching out into view of that thousand-headed creature across the footlights.

   With the usual egotism of the amateur I was sure they were all waiting to guy me; but they didn't, and I spoke my half-dozen lines without disaster. I felt as if the real me was sitting up in the flies watching his body act down below. Indeed, I could write several chapters upon my sensations that night; but as somebody else has said, that is another story.

   What is more important is the discovery of my first piece of evidence.

   At the end of the performance I was crossing the quiet stage, on my way out of the theater, when I saw a group of stage-hands and some of the minor members of the company by the stage door, with their heads together over a piece of paper. I joined the group, taking care not to bring myself forward. Another happened along, and he put the question that I wanted to ask:

   "What's the matter?"

   "McArdle here found a piece of paper on the stage with funny writing on it," said Richards. "It's some sort of a mystery."

   "Let's have a squint at it," said the newcomer.

   I looked over his shoulder. It was a single sheet of cheap note-paper of the style they call "dimity." It had evidently been torn from a pad. It seemed to be the last of several sheets of a letter, and it was written in a cipher which made my mouth water. I have a passion for puzzles of this kind.

   I give the cryptogram as I first saw it:

   On beholding this apparently meaningless assortment of letters, I had no proof that it had anything to do with my case, but I had a hunch. The question was how to get possession of it without showing my hand. I kept silent for a while, and let the others talk.

   Naturally, as the finder of the paper, my excitable friend McArdle — who did not know me, of course, in my present character — took a leading part in the discussion. The principals of the company had not yet emerged from their dressing-rooms. My opportunity came when McArdle stated in his positive way that it was a code, and that it was not possible to translate it without having the code-book.

   "A code is generally regular words," I suggested mildly, as became the newest and humblest member of the company. "Nobody would ever think up these crazy combinations of letters. I should say it was a cryptogram."

   McArdle wouldn't acknowledge that he didn't know what a cryptogram was, but somebody else asked.

   "Substituting one letter for another according to a numerical key," I said. "Easy enough to translate it, if you can hit on the key."

   One thing led to another, and soon came the inevitable challenge.

   "Bet you a dollar you can't read it!" cried McArdle.

   I hung back until the whole crowd joined him in taunting me.

   "Put up or shut up!" cried McArdle.

   The upshot was that we each deposited a dollar with old Tom, the door-keeper, and I took the paper home.

   It was one of the most ingenious and difficult cryptograms I had ever tackled, and the sun was up before I got it. Here is a transcription:

   My hunch was more than justified by the result. This was a richer prize than I had hoped for.

   IN my experience I have found that in adopting a disguise it is no less important to change one's character than one's personal appearance. As the new member of Miss Hamerton's company I called myself William Faxon. I appeared as a shabby-genteel little fellow, with lanky hair, and glasses. The glasses were removed only when I went on the stage in the dark scene. Over my bald spot I wore a kind of transformation that my friend Oscar Nilson furnished. It combed into my own hair, was sprinkled with gray, and made me look like a man on the shady side of forty somewhat in need of a barber.

   The character I assumed was that of a gentle, friendly sort of nonentity who agreed with everybody. The people of the company mostly despised me, and made me a receptacle for their egotistical outpourings. They little guessed how they bored me.

   When I joined the company it had been agreed between Miss Hamerton and myself that thereafter she had better come to my office on Fortieth Street to hear my reports. It was her custom to call nearly every afternoon about five o'clock. She insisted on hearing every detail of my activities, and listened to the story from day to day with the same anxious interest.

   Since she had first broken out in my presence it seemed as if she did not mind letting me see her feelings. Indeed, I guessed that it was a relief to this high-strung woman, who was so much in the lime-light, to let herself go a little. Her implied confidence was very grateful to me. She never gave me the key to her anxiety in so many words, but by this time I was beginning to guess the explanation, as I suppose you are too.

   When I had deciphered the cryptogram, I went to bed in high satisfaction. I knew now that I was on the right track. The man, or woman, of whom I was in search was in Miss Hamerton's company!

   I slept until afternoon. Miss Hamerton had not expected to call that day, so I rang her up to tell her that I had news. She said she couldn't come, but the coast was clear, and could I come to her?

   I found her pale and distrait.

   "Not bad news?" she asked apprehensively. "I'm not equal to it!"

   "How do I know what you would consider bad or good?" I objected; but she ignored my question.

   When I explained the circumstances of the finding of the cryptogram, and showed her my translation, I received another surprise. A sigh escaped her; an expression of beatific relief and gladness came into her face. The roses returned to her cheeks. She jumped up.

   "You're a welcome messenger!" she cried. "Oh, I'm happy now! I won't worry any more! I know!"

   I did not understand her at all, and I suppose I looked blank, for she laughed at me.

   "Don't mind me," she said. "You're on the right track. You'll soon know everything!"

   She moved around the room, humming to herself like a happy girl. She buried her face in a bowl of roses, and caressed them tenderly.

   "If I knew who had sent them," I thought, "perhaps it would give me a clue."

   "Stay and have dinner with me here, Mr. Enderby," she said suddenly, to my surprise. "I was going to a party, but I will send regrets. I don't want to be with any of them. I'm so happy! I should either have to hide it, or to explain it. I want to be myself for a while."

   I did not require much persuasion. It was like dining in fairy-land! I shall never forget that hour as long as I live. We were alone, for the unpleasant Mrs. Bleecker, thinking that Miss Hamerton was dining out, had gone off to some friends of hers. By tacit consent we avoided any reference to the case.

   I went home to disguise myself, and then proceeded to the theater. I had already photographed the cryptogram, and put the negative in my safe. McArdle was lying in wait for me, and I allowed him to drag it out of me that I had not been able to solve the puzzle.

   He collected the stakes in high glee.

   The paper was passed from hand to hand until it literally fell to pieces. No one could make anything out of it, of course. I encouraged the others' talk, helped to circulate the cryptogram, and watched from behind my innocent pieces of window-glass for some one to betray himself; but I saw nothing. The conviction was forced on me that I had a mighty clever antagonist to deal with.

   During my long waits I loitered from dressing-room to dressing-room, and let the members of the company talk. As opportunities presented themselves I quietly searched for the first page of the letter, though I supposed it had been destroyed.

   The field of my explorations comprised, in all, eighteen actors and actresses and a working force of six. However, the fact that punctuation played a part in the cryptogram, not to speak of the choice of words, convinced me that both the writer and the reader of it must be persons of a certain education, so I eliminated the illiterates.

   This reduced me at one stroke to five men and four women. Of these, two of the men were obviously too silly and vain to have carried out such a nervy piece of work, while one of the women was a dear old lady who had been on the stage for half a century, and the other was a mere bit of dandelion-fluff. These exclusions left me with five — Roland Quarles, George Casanova, Kenton Milbourne, Beulah Maddox, and Mary Gray.

   Roland Quarles I have already mentioned. Both he and Casanova were actors of established reputation, who had been in receipt of handsome salaries for some seasons. I scarcely considered them.

   Milbourne was my dark horse. He was a hatchet-faced individual, homely, uninteresting, unhealthy — looking. His fancy name sat on him strangely. He looked more like a John Doe or a Joe Williams.

   Miss Maddox was a large woman of the gushing-hysterical type; Miss Gray a quiet, well-bred girl who kept to herself a great deal.

   While I concentrated on these five, I did not overlook the doings of the others. With all the men I was soon on excellent terms, but the women baffled me. Women naturally despise a man of the kind I pretended to be. You can't win a woman's confidence without making love to her, and that was out of my line.

   On Thursday night of the week after I joined, Miss Beauchamp, who played a maid's part, spoiled a scene of Miss Hamerton's by missing her cue. It was not the first offense, and she was fired on the spot. This girl was the bit of fluff I have mentioned.

   Her departure suggested an idea to me. There was no time to be lost, so I went to Miss Hamerton at once. In my humble, shabby character I meekly spoke the part for a "friend."

   Miss Hamerton was startled. She said she would consider the application.

   I had no sooner got home that night than she called me up to ask what I had meant. I did not want to argue with her over the telephone, so I asked her to see me next morning. She said she would come to my office as soon as she had breakfasted.

   Using all my powers of persuasion, it took me more than an hour to win her consent to my putting a woman operative in the vacant part. Not only did I have to have a woman in the company, I told her, but I needed an assistant outside. Not by working twenty-four hours a day could I track down all the clues that opened up. She would never have given in, I believe, had it not been for the mysterious comfort she had found in the cryptogram.

   The rehearsal was called for three o'clock, and I had barely time to get hold of my girl. This brings me to Sadie Farrell, a very important character in my story.

   I had been "keeping company" with Sadie for a little while. At least, I considered that I had been doing so, though she denied it. She scorned me. That was her way.

   She had always lived at home. Her father and mother were dead, and she lived with her sister. Like almost all home girls, she was crazy to see a bit of life. Her heart was set on being a high-class detective. That was the only hold I had over her. I had promised her that the first time I had occasion to engage a woman operative I would give her a chance.

   Moreover, she was full of curiosity concerning Miss Hamerton, whose praises I was always singing. Sadie was never jealous, though. She had a wise little head, and she knew the difference between the feeling I had for that wonderful woman and my regard for her attractive self.

   Sadie was at home when I got there.

   "What, you?" she said, pretending to bored to death. "I thought I was going to have a peaceful afternoon."

   I couldn't resist teasing her a little.

   "Cheer up," I said. "I'm going right away again. I thought maybe you'd like to come out with me."

   "On a week-day!" she said scornfully. "Run along with you, man! I've got something better to do."

   "I bet I can make you come," I said.

   She tossed her head.

   "You know very well you can't make me do anything."

   "I bet you a dollar I can make you come."

   She smelled a mouse.

   "What are you getting at?" she demanded.

   "I wanted to take you to the theater."

   "It's too late for a matinée."

   "How about a rehearsal?"

   Her eyes sparkled.

   "A rehearsal! Wouldn't that be wonderful? Oh, you're only fooling me!"

   "Not at all," I said. "Miss Hamerton herself invited you."

   "Miss Hamerton! Shall I see her?"

   "Sure. And what's more, you are the person to be rehearsed."

   She simply stared at me.

   "She offers you a small part in her company," I drawled.

   "Me!" said the amazed Sadie. "Why, how — how did it happen?"

   "I happen to need an operative in the company, and I got her to take you."

   "When is it?" she gasped.

   "Three o'clock," I said.

   It was twenty minutes to three. Sadie rushed to me and gave my arms a little squeeze.

   "Oh, Ben, you darling fool!" she cried, and ran for her hat before I could follow up my advantage.

   On the way down-town I coached her as to what she must do. She mustn't let it be suspected that she had never acted before. She must tell the stage-manager that she had been sent by Mrs. Mendoza, the agent. She must ask forty dollars a week and come down to thirty. She must complain that her part was much inferior to those she had been playing. After the rehearsal she was to come to my office, where Miss Hamerton would meet us and give her a lesson in making up.

   Sadie simply nodded her wise little head like a bird, and said nothing. Only at the prospect of receiving instruction from the wonderful Irma Hamerton herself did her eyes gleam again. I didn't have time, just then, to tell her what she had to know about the case. I let her get out at the station nearest the theater, while I went on to my office. It was safer, of course, for me not to appear at the rehearsal as the new maid's sponsor.

   I had no doubt of Sadie's acquitting herself creditably. If I had had, no matter what my personal feelings were, I would not have employed her in this case. She was as wise as she was pretty. Under those scornful airs she was as true as steel, and she had the rare faculty of keeping a close tongue in her head.

   She had a sort of Frenchy look, with long, narrow eyes and pointed chin.

   This just happened to suit the part of the maid in the play. If I had looked a month I could not have found a better girl, not to speak of the pleasure I anticipated in working side by side with Sadie Farrell. Moreover, I was hoping by my conduct of the case to force her to admit that I was not quite such a bonehead as she liked to make out.

   Everything went off as planned. Sadie, I heard, made a good impression at rehearsal, and at a nod from the star the stage-manager engaged her. Miss Hamerton told me afterward that Sadie went through the rehearsal like an old stager.

   They arrived at my office separately, and the lesson in making up was given. Miss Hamerton laid herself out to be kind to Sadie. I think she scented a romance. Anyhow, inside of five minutes Sadie was hers, body and soul. Like myself, the girl would have stopped at nothing to serve her.

   After that I told Sadie all the facts in the case. In her woman's way of reasoning she arrived at the same conclusion that I had reached.

   "It's the work of a clever gang," she said. "They have evidently put a member, or perhaps more than one, into the company."

   "But what a lot of trouble to take," I objected, "since the necklace was not known to be of any great value!"

   "Somebody knew!"

   "If they knew about blue pearls, they must also have known that Mount was the only buyer."

   "Perhaps they were shipped to India," she said. "I suspect that East Indians have forgotten more about pearls than Mr. Mount ever knew."

   The very first time she appeared on the stage Sadie justified my confidence in her powers. Notwithstanding the excitement of making her début, she managed to keep her wits about her. Women are wonderful that way.

   During her only scene on the stage she had to wait at one side for a few minutes. While she stood there, close to the canvas scene, she heard a bit of a conversation on the other side of it. Unfortunately she had not been in the company long enough to recognize the voices.

   "Yes, sir, forty thousand dollars," a man said.

   "Go away!" was the reply. "How do you know?"

   "I saw it entered in his bank-book. I was in his dressing-room, and I saw it on the table. When he went out I looked in it out of curiosity. He deposited forty thousand dollars last week."

   "Where do you suppose he got it?"

   "Search me!"

   "Some fellows have all the luck, don't they?"

   Then the voices passed out of hearing.

   I HAVE not mentioned Mr. Alfred Mount lately, though I saw him frequently on matters connected with the case. He was an interesting character. It was only by degrees that I realized what an extraordinary man I had to deal with.

   After our first meeting his manner toward me completely changed. He appeared to be sorry for his bruskness on that occasion. Now he was all frankness and friendliness — nothing crude, you understand, but just the air of one man of the world toward another. I could not but feel flattered by it.

   While we worked together so amicably, however, our mutual antagonism remained. I knew that he still resented Miss Hamerton's having employed me without consulting him, and I believed that he was working independently. For my part, you may be sure, I told him nothing but what I had to. I found no little pleasure in blocking his subtle questioning by my air of clumsy innocence. I told him nothing about the cryptogram.

   I never visited his office again. Sometimes he dropped into mine, his bright eyes wandering all around, but more often I called on him at his apartment over the store. He occupied the second floor of the beautiful little building which housed his business.

   There was nothing of the old-fashioned shopkeeper about his place. Indeed, I never saw such splendor before or since; but it took some time to realize that it was splendor, for there was nothing showy or garish there. Everything he possessed seemed to be the choicest of kind in the world. Even with my limited knowledge, when I stopped to figure up the value of what I saw, I was staggered. I saw enough at different times to furnish several millionaires.

   Mount had a strange love for his treasures, in which there was nothing of the usual self-glorification of millionaires. He had a modest, almost a tender way of referring to his things, and of handling them. From his talk I learned quite a lot about tapestries, rugs, Chinese porcelains, enamels, ivories, and gold workmanship. He did not care for paintings.

   "Too insistent!" he said. "Paintings will not merge."

   The man was full of queer sayings, which he would drawl out with an eye to the effect he was creating on you. He never allowed daylight to penetrate to his principal room — a great hall two stories high, lined with almost priceless tapestries.

   "Daylight is rude and unmanageable," he said. "Artificial light I can order to suit my mood."

   Another odd thing was his antipathy to red. That color almost never appeared in his treasures. In the tapestries, greens predominated; the rugs were mostly old blues and yellows.

   The great room never looked quite the same. Sometimes it was completely metamorphosed overnight. I understood, from something he let fall, that the other floors of the building were stored with his treasures, which he had brought down from time to time and arranged according to his fancy.

   The only servant that I ever saw was a silent Hindu, who sometimes appeared in gorgeous Oriental costume, incrusted with jewels. It occurred to me that that was how his master ought to dress. The sober clothes of a business man, however elegant, were out of place on Mount. Long afterward I learned that it was his custom, when alone, to array himself like an Eastern potentate, but I never saw him dressed that way.

   One day, to see what he would say, I asked him pointblank what was the value of Miss Hamerton's lost pearls. He consulted a note-book.

   "She paid me at different times twenty-five thousand seven hundred dollars for them."

   "I know," I said quietly. "But what was their value?"

   He bored me through and through with his jetty eyes before answering. Finally he smiled — he had a charming smile when he chose — and spread out his hands in token of surrender. His hands were too white and beautiful for a man's.

   "I see you know the truth!" he said. "Well, I am in your hands. I hope you will keep the secret. Nothing but unhappiness could result from its becoming known."

   "I shall not tell," I said. "But how much are they worth?"

   "I really couldn't say," he said frankly. "There is nothing like them in the world — nothing to measure them by, I mean. It would depend simply on how would far the purchaser could go."

   "Wouldn't they be difficult to dispose of, when stolen?"

   "Very. That is our hope in the present situation."

   "Do you suppose the thief knew what he was getting?"

   "I doubt it. To distinguish the blue cast is a fad of my own. They are ordinarily classed simply as black pearls."

   Later he returned to the subject of his own accord. "Since you have learned or guessed so much, I should tell you the whole story, for fear you might have a doubt of Miss Hamerton."

   "No danger of that!" I said quickly.

   He looked at me strangely. I suppose he was wondering if I presumed to rival him there.

   "She, of course, has no suspicion of the true value of the pearls," he went on smoothly. "Nor does she guess that they were in my possession for years. I let her have them one or two at a time. Do you blame me?" He spread out his expressive hands again. They are the most beautiful pearls in all the world," he murmured softly; "the fruit of all my knowledge and my patience. Pearls in a case are not pearls. Only when they lie on the warm bosom of a woman are pearls really pearls. I wished to have the pleasure of seeing Irma — Miss Hamerton —wearing them. I could not give them to her; so I devised this innocent deception. Wouldn't you have done the same?"

   Perhaps I would. Anyhow, I didn't feel called upon to argue the matter with him, so I kept my mouth shut. His long eyes narrowed.

   "If you had seen her wear the real pearls, you would understand better," he continued dreamily. "They glowed as if with pleasure in their situation. Her skin is so tender that the veins give it a delicate bluish cast exactly matched by my exquisite pearls."

   To me there was something — what would you say? — something delicately indecent in the way Mount spoke of Miss Hamerton. It made me indignant deep down; but I said nothing.

   "I am a fool about precious stones," he went on, with that disarming smile. "No shopkeeper has any right to indulge in a personal passion for his wares. Pearls come first with me, then diamonds. Would you like to see my diamonds?"

   Without waiting for any answer, he disappeared into the next room. I heard the ring of a burglar-proof lock. Presently he returned bearing a little black velvet cushion, on which lay a necklet of gleaming fire.

   "I am no miser," he said, smiling. "Quantity does not appeal to me, nor mere bigness — only quality. This is my collection — seventy-two stones, the result of thirty years' search for perfection."

   I gazed at the fiery spots speechlessly. Before taking this case I had never thought much of precious stones. They had seemed like pretty things to me, and useless; but upon looking at these I could understand Miss Hamerton's reference to her pearls as living things.

   These diamonds were alive — devilishly alive. They twinkled up at Mount like complaisant little slaves outvying one another to flatter their master. The sheer beauty of them caught at one's breast. Their fire bit into a man's soul. Seeing it, I could understand the ancient lusts to rob and murder for bits of stone like these.

   "Aren't they lovely things?" Mount murmured.

   "Yes, like a snake!" I blurted out.

   He laughed.

   "That feeling seems strange to me. I love them!"

   "Put them away!" I said.

   He continued to laugh, and caressed the diamonds with his long, white fingers. Wouldn't you like to see Miss Hamerton wear them?" he asked softly.

   "No, by Heaven!" I cried. "She's a good woman!"

   He laughed more than ever. It was a kind of Oriental laugh, soft, unwholesome.

   "I'm afraid you suffer from the Puritan confusion of the ideas of beauty and evil," he said.

   "Perhaps I do," I said shortly.

   "Some other time I will show you my emeralds and sapphires," he said.

   I hated the things, yet I was eager to see them. That shows the effect they had on one.

   "How about rubies?" I asked.

   He shivered.

   "I do not care for rubies. They are an ugly color."

   I welcomed the chill, raw air of the street after that scented chamber. After the elegant collector of jewels my crude and commonplace fellow citizens seemed all that was honest and sturdy. I was proud of them.

   Yet I enjoyed going to Mount's rooms, too. One could count on being thrilled in one way or another.

   AS time went on I dismissed the women of the company from my calculations, though I still kept an eye on them through Sadie. Of the men I had most to do with two, Roland Quarles and Kenton Milbourne — the first because I liked him, and the second because I didn't like him.

   Though I had no evidence against him, the idea that Milbourne was the thief had little by little fixed itself in my mind. It was largely a process of elimination. All the others had proved to my satisfaction, in one way or another, that they couldn't have committed the robbery. With the exception of Quarles, I felt sure that none of them had the brains to conceive such a plan, or to hide it afterward.

   I didn't know whether Milbourne had the brains; indeed, the more I went with him the less I knew. Yet he did not seem to have a guard over himself. I laid several ingenious little traps to get a sight of his bank-book, but did not succeed in finding out even if he possessed such a thing.

   Milbourne was a pasty, hatchet-faced individual, very precise and conscientious in his manner, and exceedingly talkative. That was what put me off. He talked all the time, but I learned nothing from it. With his sharp, foxy features and narrow-set eyes, he had the look of a crook, right enough; but after all looks are not so important as disposition, and this heavy, dull-witted, verbose fellow was the epitome of respectability.

   He was not at all popular in the company, principally, I fancy, because of his ostentatious nicety. He bragged of the number of baths he took. He was not a "good fellow." He never joked or joined in pranks with the crowd. In the play he took the part of a brutal thug, a sort of Bill Sikes, and played it well, though there was nothing in his appearance to suggest the part. He was the fox, not the bulldog. Imagine a man with the appearance of a fox and the voice of a sheep, and you have Kenton Milbourne.

   Shortly after I joined the company I was assigned to share his dressing-room. Milbourne told me that he had requested the stage-manager to make the change, because he objected to the personal habits of his former roommate. So I had every opportunity to observe him.

   A lot of good it did me! He talked me to sleep. He would recite all the news of the day, which I had just read for myself, and would comment on it like a country newspaper. You simply could not stop him.

   Roland Quarles I cultivated for a different reason. I did not suspect him. As a popular leading juvenile, his life had been lived in the public eye for years, and he could have had no reason for being a thief, unless through utter depravity.

   I liked him. I was working hard, but one can't be a detective every waking minute. I sought out Roland to forget my work. I had started disinterestedly with the whole company, but I gradually came to feel an affection for the leading man, principally because, much to my surprise, he seemed to like me.

   I have said that he seemed to be a morose young man. Such was my first impression. He did not make friends easily. He was hated by all the men of the company, because he despised their foolish conceit, and took no pains to hide it. But the women liked him; I may say that all women were attracted to him. He did not plume himself on this. Indeed, it was a matter of great embarrassment to him, and he avoided the women no less than the men.

   Quarles was exceedingly good-looking and graceful, and there was not the slightest consciousness of it in his bearing. In that respect he stood almost alone among young actors. He had a proud, reserved, bitter air. As a novelist might say, he seemed to cherish a secret sorrow. His mail at the theater was enormous. He used to stuff it in his pockets without looking at it.

   I got my first insight into his character from his treatment of me. Of the entire company he and Milbourne were the only members who never made my meek insignificance a target for unkind wit. Of them all, only this high and mighty young man never tried to make me feel my insignificance.

   For a while he ignored me; but after a time it seemed to strike him that I was being put upon by the others, whereupon in an unassuming way he began to make little overtures of friendship. I was charmed.

   One night, after the show, he offered me a cigar at the stage door, and we walked down the street smoking and chatting until our ways parted. He was not on during the second act, and after my brief scene I got into the habit of stopping a while in his room before I went up to change.

   He had good sense, and it was worth while talking to him. We became very friendly. He was only a year or two younger than I, but to me he seemed like a mere kid.

   One night, in the middle of our talk, he said:

   "You're not like an actor. You're human!"

   "Don't you like actors?" I asked curiously.

   "It's a rotten business for men," he said bitterly. "It unsexes them. But here I am! What am I to do about it?"

   I learned, as I knew him better, that notwithstanding the adulation of women — or, perhaps, because of it — this popular young actor led an exemplary life. The dazzling palaces of the Great White Way knew him not. It was his custom to go home after the show, have a bite to eat in solitude, and read until he turned in.

   One night he invited me to accompany him. He had a modest flat in the Gramercy Square neighborhood, with an adoring old woman to look after him. The cheerful fire, the shaded lamp, the capacious easy chair, gave me a new conception of bachelor comfort. Books were a feature of the place.

   "Pretty snug, eh?" he said, following my admiring eyes.

   "Well, you're not like an actor, either," said I.

   He laughed.

   "After the theater, this is like heaven!"

   "Why don't you chuck it?" I asked. "You're young."

   He shrugged.

   "Who wants to give an actor a regular job?"

   We had scrambled eggs and sausages. I stayed for a couple of hours talking about the abstract questions that young men love to discuss. When I left, however, he was as much of an enigma to me as when I arrived. He was willing to talk about anything under the sun — except himself. Without appearing to, he foiled all my attempts to draw him out.

   Hard upon this growing friendship it was a shock to learn from Sadie, as a result of her work during the days, that it was Roland Quarles who had deposited forty thousand dollars in his bank.

   "Impossible!" I said in surprise.

   "I got it direct from the bank," she said. "It's the Thirteenth National. He deposited forty thousand in cash April 6."

   My heart sank.

   "But that doesn't prove that he stole the pearls," added Sadie, who shared my liking for the young fellow.

   "I hope not," I said gloomily; "but if it wasn't he, then our promising clue is no good."

   "Possibly he won it on the Stock Exchange."

   "Not impossible," I returned, "but highly improbable."

   "Well, I can think of ten good reasons why he couldn't have been the thief," Sadie persisted. She had too warm a heart, perhaps, to make an ideal investigator.

   That night Roland asked me home to supper again. This was about a week after the first invitation. The old woman had gone to bed, and he cooked creamed oysters in a chafing-dish, while I looked at the newspaper.

   "Wouldn't it be nice to have white hands waiting at home to do that for you?" I suggested teasingly.

   "Never for me!" he said with a bitter smile.

   "Why not?"

   "What I can have I don't want. What I want I can never have."

   "You never can tell," I said encouragingly.

   I was thinking what a superb couple the handsome young pair made on the stage. It seemed low to cross-examine him while he was preparing to feed me, but there was no help for it.

   "The market is off again," I said carelessly. "Chance for somebody to make money!"

   "How can you make money when the market is going down?" he asked innocently.

   If the innocence was assumed, it was mighty well done. However, I told myself his business was acting.

   "By selling short," I said.

   "I never understood that operation."

   I explained it.

   "Too complicated for me!" he said. "Moreover, I consider the whole business of speculation immoral."

   I agreed, and switched to talk of solid, permanent investments. He immediately looked interested.

   "You seem to know something about such matters," he said. Suppose a man had a little money to invest, what would you advise?"

   "Your savings?" I asked with a smile.

   "Lord, I couldn't save anything! No, I have a friend who has a few thousands surplus."

   Being anxious to believe well of him, I snatched at this straw. Perhaps a friend had entrusted him with money to invest. Hardly likely, though, and still more unlikely that it would be handed over in cash. I gave him some good advice, and the subject was dropped.

   Later we got to talking about acting again. He said in his bitter way:

   "I shall soon be out of it now, one way or the other."

   "What do you mean?" I asked.

   "I mean to leave the stage at the close of this engagement, or before."

   "What are you going to do?"

   "Goodness knows!" he said, with his laugh. "Go to the deuce, I expect!"

   I couldn't get anything else out of him. It was all mysterious enough. He sounded utterly reckless when you got below the surface, but somehow it was not the recklessness of a crook.

   Worse was to follow. First, however, I must put down how the situation stood with Milbourne, because I shall not return to him for some time.

   Kenton Milbourne! I have to smile had every time I write it, the fancy appellation was so unsuitable to the tallow-cheeked, hatchet-faced talker who bore it. I believed that Milbourne had stolen the pearls, and I worked hard to justify my belief, but without being able to lay anything bare against him.

   Every night he talked me to a stand-still. He seemed to be a man totally devoid of individuality or temperament — a mere windbag. But I told myself that dulness is the sharper's favorite and most effective disguise. His talk was a little too vapid to be natural, and once in a while I received an impression that he was anything but dull.

   One night I said to him, as Roland had said to me:

   "You don't seem like an actor. How did you get into this business?"

   "Drifted into it," he said. "Always knew I could act, but was too busy with other things. I had an attack of typhoid in Sydney, four years ago, which shattered my health. When I was getting better, a friend gave me the part of a human monster to play, just to help me pass the time. I made a wonderful hit in it. They wouldn't let me stop. Since then I've never been idle. I haven't any conceit, so they offer me the horrible parts."

   "Sydney?" I said.

   "I was raised in Australia. I came to America last fall because there is a wider field for my art here."

   I put this down in my mind as a lie. I do not know the Australians, but I suppose they have their own peculiarities of speech, and this man talked good New York.

   I asked idly what parts he had played in Australia. He named three or four, and I made careful mental notes of them. I thought I had him there.

   The next day I consulted old files of an Australian stage paper in the rooms of the Actors' Society. To my chagrin, I found his name, Kenton Milbourne, listed in the casts of the very plays he had mentioned.

   I was far from being convinced of his genuineness, however. I wrote to Australia for further information.

   Under cover of my meek and gentle air, I continued to watch him closely. I could have sworn that he was not aware of it — which shows how one may fool oneself. His apparent stupidity still blocked me.

   One night, when he lifted the tray of his trunk, I saw the edge of a book underneath.

   "Anything good to read?" I said, picking it up before he could stop me.

   A peculiar look chased across his face, which was anything but stupidity. The title of the book was "The World's Famous Jewels."

   "Aha, my man!" I thought. "That's not in my line," I said, dropping the book.

   This was how matters stood when things began to happen which drove all thought of Kenton Milbourne out of my mind.

   The next day Sadie came into the office to report, looking so confoundedly pretty that it drove the detective business clean out of my mind for the moment. What with her thirty dollars a week from the theater and her additional salary as an operative, which Miss Hamerton insisted on her taking, Sadie was in comparatively affluent circumstances, and for the first time in her life she was able to dress as a pretty girl ought. With her spring hat and suit, her dainty gloves and boots, all purchased at good shops, she was as smart a little lady as you'd find from one end of New York to the other.

   "You look sweet enough to eat!" I said, grinning at her like a Cheshire cat.

   "Cut it out!" she said, with her high and mighty air. "It's business hours. I'm operative S. F."

   "What's that for — swell figure?"

   "Wait till after the whistle blows!"

   "After hours you're Miss Covington, the actress, and I'm not allowed to know you."

   "Well, there's Sunday," she suggested.

   "But this is only Tuesday."

   "I've got to show respect to my boss, haven't I?"

   "What if I kissed you anyhow?"

   "I'd box your ears!" she said, quick as lightning.

   And she would. I sighed, and came back to earth. It was not that I was afraid of the box on the ears, but she was right, and I knew it. As soon as I started that line of talk, I resigned my proper place as the boss of the establishment.

   "What's new?" I asked.

   "I found out something interesting to-day," she said. "Miss Hamerton's in love with Roland Quarles."

   "I guessed that long ago," I said calmly.

   Sadie was much taken aback. Evidently she had expected to stun me.

   "You never said anything about it," she told me, pouting.

   "No — I left it for you to find out for yourself."

   "She never believed he had anything to do with the robbery," Sadie added, with a touch of defiance.

   "Then why was she so distressed in the beginning?"

   "Well, there was something that would have looked like evidence to a man," Sadie said scornfully; "so, naturally, she didn't want to tell you."

   "Did she tell you?" I asked, a little huffed at the thought that Sadie was getting deeper in the confidence of my lady client than I.

   "Yes, to-day. She didn't tell me about to the other. her feelings, of course. I guessed that part."

   "What is this mysterious thing?"

   "She only told me because since she saw the cryptogram she knows there couldn't be anything in it."

   This was getting denser instead of clearer.

   "What was there about the cryptogram that eased her mind?" I asked.

   "She knows that it couldn't have been written to Roland Quarles, because he has no idea of leaving the company."

   "Oh, hasn't he?" I thought to myself. How strangely loving women reason! Aloud I said: "Now for the thing that a mere man would have considered evidence!"

   "Don't try to be sarcastic," said Sadie. "It doesn't suit you."

   "Who's forgetting that I'm the boss now?" I said severely.

   She made a face at me, and went on:

   "It seems that Miss Hamerton and Roland Quarles had a bet on about pearls." This was something new. I pricked up my ears. "She laughed at him because he thought he knew something about jewels, and she says he scarcely knows a pearl from an opal. They argued about it, and she finally bet him a box of cigars against a box of gloves that he wouldn't be able to tell when she wore the genuine pearls. That was how she came to wear them the night they were stolen."

   "The deuce it was!" I exclaimed.

   "But he has never spoken about it since. She believes that he has forgotten all about the bet."

   I walked up and down the room, considering from every view-point what this might mean.

   "You needn't look like that," said Sadie. "We know he didn't do it. Wouldn't he have paid his bet if he had?"

   "It seems so," I answered, not knowing what to believe.

   "There's another reason," said Sadie, "sufficient for a woman."

   "What's that?" hastily returned all the papers to his He's in love with her. He's making love to her now. He couldn't do that if he had robbed her."

   "I don't know," I said grimly. "If he could rob her, I suspect he could make love to her."

   At the theater that night, I devoted my attention pretty exclusively to Quarles. Heaven knows I was not anxious to ruin the young fellow, but Sadie's communication, taken in connection with the cryptogram and with that mysterious cash deposit, was beginning to look like pretty strong evidence. This being my first case, I attached more importance to "evidence" than I would now.

   I was in his dressing-room when he left to go on for the third act. He had only a short scene at the beginning, and as he went out he asked me to wait till he came off.

   I watched him go with a sinking heart, for I hated to do what I had to do. He so handsome, so graceful, and, with that burden on his breast, so invariably kind to me, that I felt like a wretch. Nevertheless, I told myself, for the sake of all of us I had to discover the painful secret that he was hiding.

   I knew exactly how long I had before he would return. I swung the door almost shut, as if the wind had blown it, and made a rapid, thorough search.

   There was a pile of letters on his dressing-table, as yet unopened. Nothing suspicious there, and nothing in the drawers of his dressing-table. There was no trunk in the room.

   His street-coat was on a form hanging from a hook. I frisked the pockets. There was a handful of letters and papers in the breast-pocket. Shuffling them over, I came upon a sheet of dimity note-paper without an envelope. Opening it, I beheld a communication in cryptograph exactly like the other.

   I could hear the voices on the stage. Quarles was about to come off. I hastily returned all the papers to his pocket, as I had found them, except the cryptogram. That I put in my own pocket.

   When he came in we picked up our conversation where we had dropped it.

   As soon as I got home I made haste to translate my find. I had saved the numerical key I used before. I instantly found that it fitted this communication and this is what I got:

   So this was why Quarles cultivated my friendship, I thought, feeling all the bitterness of finding myself betrayed! I could no longer doubt my evidence. My friendly feeling for the young fellow was swept away.

   THE next morning I awoke with a leaden weight on my breast. I had no zest in a day which brought with it the necessity of telling Miss Hamerton what I had learned.

   I put off the evil moment as long as possible. During the morning Sadie came into the office for instructions. I had not the heart to tell her. I sent her over to Newark on a wild-goose chase in connection with some of McArdle's activities.

   I was not expecting Miss Hamerton that afternoon. At three o'clock I called her up, and said that I had something important to report. She said that she was expecting a visitor, and did not wish to go out. Could I come to her?

   This pleased me, for since I had to strike her down it was more merciful to do it at home. I went.

   She had never looked lovelier. Her room was a bower of spring flowers, and in a pale-yellow dress she was like the fairest daffodil among them. She was full of happiness, her cheeks glowing, her eyes sparkling. It did not make my task any easier. Indeed, I angrily rebelled from it; but she was already asking me what was the matter.

   I told her — bunglingly enough, Heaven knows of the second cryptogram, and where I had found it. It crushed her like a flower trodden underfoot. Presently, however, she began to fight.

   "The first thing the thief would do when he found himself under surveillance," she faltered, "would be to try to divert your attention to someone else."

   "He would hardly choose one ordinarily so far above suspicion as the leading man," I said reluctantly.

   "He may have known, since he knows so much, that you were already suspicious of Ro— of the other."

   She could not get Quarles's name out. I felt like the criminal myself, trying to convince her against her heart.

   "Taken by itself, the letter would not be conclusive; but with the other things —"

   "What other things?"

   "Well, his provoking you by a bet to wear the genuine pearls."

   "There's nothing in that," she said quickly. "If he had had an ulterior motive, he would have spoken of the bet since. He would have lost it, wouldn't he, to keep us from suspecting?"

   I conceded the reasonableness of this &3151; taken by itself.

   "But his bank-account?"

   "Bank-account?" she repeated, startled. We had not told her of this.

   "On April 6 Mr. Quarles deposited forty thousand dollars in cash in the Thirteenth National Bank."

   All the light went out of her face.

   "Oh! Are you sure?" she gasped.

   "I have seen the entry in his pass-book. I verified it at the bank."

   Her heart still fought for him.

   "But my necklace was worth only the twenty-five thousand; and a thief would never be able to realize its full value."

   I shrugged. Naturally, I did not care to add to her unhappiness by telling her that the pearls were worth half a million. She thought from my shrug that I meant to convey that if her lover had been guilty of one theft, why not others? It crushed her anew. She had no more fight left in her. She sank back dead white and bereft of motion.

   "He's coming here," she whispered. "What shall I say to him? What shall I say?"

   "Don't see him," I cried.

   "I must! I promised."

   I sat there, I don't know for how long, staring at the carpet like a clown. The telephone rang, and we both jumped as at a pistol-shot. I offered to answer it, but she waved me back. She went to the instrument falteringly; but I was surprised at the steadiness of her voice.

   "What is it?" she asked.

   "Let him come up," she said firmly. By her white, stricken face, I knew who it was. I jumped up in a kind of a panic.

   "I will have myself carried up to the roof-garden, so that I won't meet him," I said.

   "No, please!" she murmured. "I want you here."

   "But he must not meet me!" I cried.

   "Wait in the next room." Her voice broke piteously. "Oh, I must have some one here — some one whom I can trust!"

   What was I to do? I obeyed very unwillingly.

   As soon as Quarles entered I found that the transom over the door was open, and I could hear everything that passed between them. Of all the difficult things that have been forced on me in the way of business, that half-hour's eavesdropping was as bad as any.

   He must have been highly wrought up, because he apparently failed to notice her state. His very first speech was tragically unfortunate. He spoke in a harsh, strained voice, as if the painful thing that he had kept hidden so long was breaking out in spite of him.

   "Irma, how soon can you replace me in the cast?"

   "Eh?" she murmured, and I could imagine the painful start she suppressed.

   "I want to get out. I can't stand it any longer!"

   "But why?" she whispered.

   "I hate acting! It's not a man's work."

   "Have you just discovered that?" asked with a little note of scorn, very painful to hear.

   "No," he said gloomily. "I've always known it. If I had been left to myself, I never would have acted; but I came of a family of actors. I was brought up to it. I kept on because it was all I knew. It is only since I have acted with you that it has become more than I can bear."

   "Why with me?" she whispered.

   "Because I love you!" he said in a harsh, abrupt voice.

   "Ah!" The sound was no more than a painful catch in her breath.

   "Oh, you needn't tell me I'm a presumptuous fool!" he burst out. "I know it already. You don't know the height of my presumption yet. I love you! The silly make-believe of love that I have to go through with you every night drives me mad. I love you! I am ashamed to make my living by exhibiting a pretense of love!"

   "It was your father's profession, and your mother's," she murmured.

   "They were the real thing," he said gloomily. "They had a genuine call. They loved their work. I hark back to an earlier strain, I suppose. I have no feeling for the stage. I hate the tinsel and show and make-believe. I want to lead a real life with you —"

   No man has any right to hear another man bare his heart like this. I went to the open window and leaned out. I had forgotten Roland's supposed guilt. My instinct told me that a guilty man could not have spoken so.

   Even on the window-sill, though I tried not to hear, an occasional word reached me. We were so high up that little of the street noises reached us. By and by I heard Roland say "money," and I was drawn back into the room. I felt that it was my business to hear this.

   He was still pleading with his heart in his voice.

   "A month ago I would just have left without saying anything to you. I don't that I am fit for anything but acting. I could not ask you to give it up without having something else to offer you. I suffer so to see you on the stage — your name, your person, your doings, all public property! I cannot stand seeing you show your lovely self to the applause of those vulgar fools!"

   "You are mad!" she whispered.

   "I know — but I have had a stroke of luck!"

   "Luck?"

   "I have come into some money — oh, nothing much, but enough to give me a start in some new country, if you could come with me. Oh, I am a fool to think it, but I had to tell you that I loved you. You would be quite justified in laughing and showing me the door. But I love you! It seemed cowardly to go away without telling you."

   "You are asking me to give up my profession?" she murmured unsteadily.

   "I ask nothing. I expect nothing. But if you could! You'd have to give it up. It would kill me otherwise." He laughed harshly. "Am I not ridiculous? Tell me to go!"

   "I am not so enamored of make-believe, either," she murmured.

   She was weakening! I trembled for her. This wretched business had to be cleared up before they could hope for any happiness.

   "If I loved you, I could give it up," she whispered; "but I am not sure!"

   It was a glimpse of heaven to him.

   "Irma!" He cried her name over and over brokenly. "My dear love! Then there is a chance — I never expected — oh, don't raise me up only to cast me down lower than before!"

   I went to the window-sill again and leaned out. There I was still when she came in. She was trembling and breathing fast.

   "He has gone," she said. She led me back into the outer room. She noticed that the transom was open. "You heard?" she asked.

   "Some," I said uncomfortably; "more than I wanted to. Have you promised to marry him?"

   She shook her head.

   "I have promised nothing. I asked for time."

   "Good!" I said involuntarily.

   She looked at me, startled.

   "You heard!" she said defiantly. "Were they the words of a guilty man?"

   "Not if I know anything about human nature," I replied promptly.

   "Oh, thank you!" she said. She was very near tears. "Anything else would be unbelievable!"

   "Give me one day more," I suggested.

   "No! No!" she cried with surprising energy. "I will not carry this tragic farce any further. I hate the pearls now! I would not wear them if I did get them back. They are gone. Let them go!"

   "But, Miss Hamerton —" I persisted.

   "Not another word!" she cried. "My mind is made up!"

   "I must speak," I said doggedly; "because you as much as said that you depended on getting honest advice from me. You can't stop at this point. If you marry Mr. Quarles, the fact that you have suspected him, though it was only for a moment, will haunt you all your life. No marriage is a bed of roses, and inevitably, when trouble comes, your grim specter will rise and mock you. It must be definitely laid in its grave before you can marry the man!"

   The bold style of my speech made her pause. I had never spoken to her in that way before.

   "I hope you know it's not the job I'm after," I went on. "I never had work to do that I enjoyed less; but you put it up to me to give you honest advice."

   "I can't spy on the man I love," she faltered.

   "You can't marry the man you suspect," I returned.

   "I don't suspect him."

   "The suspicious circumstances are not yet explained."

   "Very well, then — I'll send for him to and he will explain them."

   I had a flash of insight into the character of my young friend.

   "No!" I cried. "If he knew that you had ever suspected him, he would never forgive you!"

   "Then what do you want me to do?" she cried.

   "Give me twenty-four hours to produce proofs of his innocence."

   She gave in with a gesture.

(To be continued in the September number of MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE)

Thieves' Wit (1916-17) by Hulbert Footner (1879-1944) Author of "Jack Chanty," "The Huntress," etc.

* Copyright, 1916, by Hulbert Footner — This story began in the August number of MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE

LEAVING Miss Hamerton, I walked twice around Bryant Park to put my thoughts in order. I wished to believe in Roland's innocence almost as ardently as she did, but I had to force myself to keep an open mind. A fixed idea one way or the other is fatal to any investigator; so I argued against him for a while to strike a balance.

   I told myself that there is a type of man who will stop at nothing to secure the woman he desires. In the bottom of my heart, like anybody else, I had a sneaking admiration for the type.

   True, I had never heard of a man robbing a woman in order to secure the means to support her; but human psychology is an amazing thing. You never can tell! I reminded myself of all the other times when I had been brought face to face with the apparently impossible. Particularly is human nature ingenious in justifying itself.

   I finally made up my mind to search Roland's apartment that night. On my previous visits I had marked a little safe there. It might very possibly contain conclusive evidence one way or the other. What I hoped to find was some natural and honest explanation of the sum of money he had received.

   At the theater, that night, Roland and I were as friendly as usual. The shadow was somewhat lifted from his dark eyes, which burned with an expectant fire. An extraordinary restlessness possessed him. For all his professed hatred of it, he outdid himself in playing his rôle. As far as I could see, he and Irma held no communication outside the play.

   In pursuance of the plan I had made, I insisted on his supping with me. I was free to leave the theater after the second act, so I went on ahead — to order the supper I, said. He was to meet me at the Thespis Club at half past eleven. I did order the supper there, and then hurried on to his flat, arriving some time before his customary hour of coming from the theater.

   His old housekeeper, having seen me in his company several times, expressed no surprise at my coming. I said I would wait for him, and she left me to my own devices in the front room.

   I satisfied myself that she had gone to her own room on the other side of the kitchen, three doors away; then I set to work.

   I had brought a bunch of skeleton keys and a set of miniature housebreaking tools. I didn't require them, for I found that the little safe had one of the earliest and simplest forms of a lock. Part of my apprenticeship had been spent in learning how to open such locks by listening to the fall of the tumblers as one turned the knob. All that was required was patience.

   It was a little after ten o'clock. Supposing that Roland would wait half an hour for me at the Thespis Club, I had two hours in which to work. It was painfully exciting. I had my first experience of the sensations of a housebreaker.

   The safe door swung open at last, and with a beating heart I looked inside. It held but little — a diary which I left for the moment; a wallet containing a sum of money; a bundle of papers enclosed by an elastic band. I went over the papers hastily. They consisted of insurance policies, theatrical contracts, and business letters of old dates, which had nothing whatever to do with my case.

   However, there was still a little locked drawer to investigate. After a number of tries I fixed a key that would open it.

   The first things I saw here were several pieces of men's jewelry, which Roland, doubtless used for stage properties. There were two other articles. One was a little antique box made of some sweet-smelling wood, which contained several notes in Irma's handwriting and some withered flowers. The other — the last thing in the drawer — was a seal-leather case, such as jewelers display. Upon pressing the spring the cover flew back, and I saw lying on a bed of white velvet a string of wonderful, dusky pearls.

   For many moments I gazed at them in stupid astonishment. Heaven knows what I had expected to find. Certainly not that!

   What did it mean? The string looked exactly like the one that Miss Hamerton had shown me. I counted the pearls. There were sixty-seven of them.

   Could this be another of Roberts's replicas? Perhaps Roland had bought it and stowed it away for sentimental reasons; but such an explanation seemed pretty far-fetched.

   I carried the pearls to the electric light. There I could see the blue cast in them, like the last gleam of light in the twilight sky. They had a wonderful fire, a deep-seated life.

   An instinct told me that they were genuine pearls. If they were, this must be the string, for Mount had said that there were no others. I remembered that Miss Hamerton had told me she had made a little scratch on the clasp, and I eagerly looked for it. There was a kind of mark there.

   At this point I shook my head and gave up speculating. Slipping the case into my pocket I, locked the drawer and closed the safe again. I switched off the lights and let myself quietly out of the flat.

   I decided to go to the Thespis Club as if nothing had happened. I was not at all anxious to meet Roland until I knew where I stood, but I reflected that if I failed him it might rouse his suspicions and precipitate a catastrophe before I was ready. There was not much danger that he would look into his safe that night if I kept him late. His housekeeper would tell him that I had been there, but I could explain my visit. In the morning I would have him watched.

   Roland was at the club when I arrived.

   "I've been at your rooms," I said instantly. "I had an idea that I was to wait for you there; but I got thinking it over and decided I had made a mistake."

   "You have a memory like a colander," he said good-naturedly. "Better do something about it!"

   We sat down to our supper. Roland was in extraordinary spirits for him. All the while we ate, drank, and joked I was wondering in the back of my head what kind of a change would come over his grim, dark, laughing face if he knew what I had in my pocket.

   FEW would envy me my task next morning. I called up Miss Hamerton, merely saying that I would come to the hotel half an hour later.

   Sadie came in, but, having kept from her what had happened I, could not discuss the present situation with her. I was not obliged to tell her all the developments of the case, of course; but she had a moral right to my confidence, and so I felt guilty and wretched every way. Sadie, I knew, would be terribly cut up by the way things were tending, and I had not the heart to face it, with what I had to go through later.

   Miss Hamerton received me with great, bright eyes that looked out of her white face like stars at dawn. The instant she caught sight of me she said:

   "You have news?"

   I nodded.

   "Good or bad?" she whispered breathlessly.

   There was no use beating around the bush.

   "Bad," I said bluntly.

   A hand went to her breast.

   "Tell me — quickly!"

   I drew out the case. She gave no sign of recognizing it. I snapped it open.

   "Is this the lost necklace?" I asked.

   With a little cry she seized upon it, examined the pearls, breathed upon them, looked at the clasp.

   "Yes! Yes!" she exclaimed, joy struggling in her face with an underlying terror. "Where did you get it?"

   "Out of a safe in Mr. Quarles's flat."

   She looked at me as if stricken senseless. I had to repeat the words.

   "Oh! You would not deceive me?" she whispered.

   "I wish to God it were not true!" I cried.

   "In his room — his room!" she muttered repeatedly.

   Suddenly she sank down in a crumpled heap on the floor. I gathered her up in my arms and laid her on the sofa. I called Mrs. Bleecker, who came running, accompanied by Irma's maid.

   A senseless scene of confusion followed. The foolish women roused half the hotel with their outcries. I myself carried the beautiful, inanimate girl into her bedroom. For me it was holy ground. It was almost as bare as a convent cell. It pleased me to find that she instinctively rejected luxury on retiring to her last stronghold.

   I laid her on her bed — the pillow was no whiter than the cheek it bore — and returned to the outer room to await the issue. All this time, I must tell you, Mrs. Bleecker was relieving her feelings by abusing me. From the first I had apprehended hatred in that lady.

   I waited a few minutes, feeling very unnecessary, and wondering if I would not do better to return to my office, when the companion came back and with a very ill grace said that Miss Hamerton wanted to know if it was convenient for me to wait a little while, until she was able to see me, and would I please say whatever was necessary to people who called.

   I almost wept upon receiving this message. I sent back word that I would stay all day, if she wanted me. Mrs. Bleecker glared at me, almost beside herself with defeated curiosity. I had the necklace safe in my pocket, and she was without a clue to what had happened.

   So there I was established as Miss Hamerton's representative. Everybody took orders from me and wondered who I was. The news had spread like wildfire that the famous actress had been taken ill, and the telephone rang almost continuously. I finally told the hotel people what to say, and ordered it disconnected.

   I had a couple of boys stationed in the corridor to keep people from the door. I sent for two doctors; not that Irma was in any real need of medical attention, but I wished to have the support of a professional bulletin. I told them what I thought necessary. They were discreet men.

   Miss Hamerton had no close relatives, and I could not see the sense of sending for any others. I forbade Mrs. Bleecker to telegraph to them. In a case of this kind solitude is the best and most merciful treatment for the sufferer. As it was I, pitied the poor girl having to endure the officious ministrations of her inquisitive servants, but I did not feel justified in interfering there.

   Only two men were allowed past the guard in the corridor — Mr. Maurice Metz, the famous theatrical manager, and Mr. Alfred Mount.

   The former stormed about the room like a wilful child. His pocketbook was hard hit, but I was firm with him. He could not see Miss Hamerton; he must be satisfied with my report. Miss Hamerton had suffered a severe nervous breakdown — with that phrase we guarded her piteous secret — and it would be out of the question for her to act for weeks to come. It was her wish that the company should be paid off and disbanded.

   "Who the devil are you?" he demanded.

   "I speak for Miss Hamerton," I said with a shrug.

   I remembered how humbly I had once besieged this man's door with my play, and now I was turning him down. To satisfy him, I called Mrs. Bleecker in. He demanded of her who I was.

   "I don't know!" she snapped.

   Nevertheless, she had to bear me out. Miss Hamerton had sent word that the company was to be paid off with two weeks' salary, and the amount charged to her. I referred Mr. Metz to the doctors. They impressed him with medical phrases which he didn't understand. He finally departed, talking to himself and waving his hands.

   Mr. Mount, of course, was very different. He came in all suave sympathy, anxious to uphold me in every way. I had wished to see him for a special purpose. I couldn't allow the possibility of a ghastly mistake being made.

   I produced the fateful little seal-leather box and snapped it open again.

   "Are these the lost pearls?" I asked.

   The man had wonderful self-control. No muscle of his face changed; only his black eyes flamed up.

   He took the box quietly, but those eyes pounced on the pearls like their prey, and wolfed them one by one. When he returned the case to me, a curious smile wreathed the corners of his voluptuous mouth.

   "Those are the pearls," he said quietly.

   "You are sure?"

   "Sure?" He spread out his hands. "There are no other such pearls in the world!"

   I returned the box to my pocket.

   "Where did you find them?" he asked.

   "At present I am not free to say how they were recovered," I replied. "No doubt Miss Hamerton will allow it to be given out later."

   "I think I understand," he said with a compassionate air. "I suppose there will be no prosecution?"

   "I do not know," I said blandly.

   "Perhaps it would be better never to speak of the matter to her?" he said softly.

   I shrugged. I wasn't going to let him get any change out of me.

   "Anyhow, it's a triumph for you," he said graciously. "Allow me to congratulate you!"

   Was there a faint ring of irony in his words? In either case, I never felt less triumphant. What booted it to return her jewels if I had broken her heart? I bowed my acknowledgment. As he left he said:

   "Come and see me sometimes, though the case is closed. You are too valuable a man for me to lose sight of."

   I bowed again, mutely registering a resolve to ask him a thumping figure if ever he should require my services.

   Meanwhile I had the reporters to deal with. I have a strong liking for the boys. As a class, they are the most human lot of fellows I know. They do not make the rotten conditions of their business; but they certainly are the devil to deal with when they get you on the defensive. They spread through the hotel like quicksilver, bribing the bell-boys, the maids, and even the waiter who brought up my dinner. If we had not been on the eleventh story, I should have expected to find them peeping in at the windows.

   I did not dare to see them myself. In my anomalous position, they would have made a monkey of me. In my mind's eye I could see the story of the mysterious stranger who claimed to represent Miss Hamerton, and all the rest of it.

   I had to take every precaution, too, to keep them from that fool of a Mrs. Bleecker. I carefully drilled the doctors in what they should say and then sent them down to their fate. They came off better than I expected. Of course, some lurid tales appeared next day, but they were away beside the mark. Nothing approaching the truth was ever published.

   A little before five o'clock everybody had gone, and I was alone in the sitting room, gazing out of the window and indulging in sufficiently gloomy thoughts, when I heard the door behind me open. I turned with a sigh, expecting fresh complaints and demands from the old harridan; but there was Irma trying to smile at me.

   She was wearing a white negligee affair that made her look like a fragile lily. She walked with a firm step, but her face shocked me. It looked dead. The eyes, open, were infinitely more ghastly than when I had laid her down with them closed.

   Mrs. Bleecker and the maid followed, buzzing around her. She seemed to have reached the limit of her patience with them.

   "Let me be!" she said, as sharply as I ever heard her speak. "I am perfectly well able to walk and to speak. Please go back to the bedroom. I have business to discuss with Mr. Enderby."

   They retired, bearing me no love in their hearts.

   "I must go away, quite by myself," she said, speaking at random. "Can you help me to find a place, some place where nobody knows me? If I do not get away from these people, they will drive me mad!"

   "I will find you a place," I said.

   "Perhaps I'd better not go alone," she went on. "If I could only find the right kind of person! I'm so terribly alone. That nice girl that you brought into the company — Miss Farrell — do you think she would go with me?"

   There was something in this more painful than I can convey.

   "She'd jump at the chance," I replied bruskly.

   "You have been so good to me!" she said.

   "You can say that?" I cried, greatly astonished.

   "Oh, I've not quite taken leave of my senses," she said bitterly. "If I had not known the truth, it would have been much worse!" This struck me as extraordinary generosity in a woman who loved. "I — I have something else to ask of you," she added in the piteous, beseeching way that made me want to cast myself at her feet.

   "Anything," I murmured.

   "Mr. Quarles is coming here at five o'clock. Please see him and tell him — oh, tell him anything you like, anything that will keep him from ever trying to see me again!"

   I nodded.

   "You had better lose no time in getting out of this," I suggested. "Can you be ready by to-morrow morning?"

   "I will start packing now," she said. "It will give me something to do."

   How well I understood the hideous blankness that faced her!

   "Don't let those women bother you." I said. "Refer them to me."

   "They mean well," she returned.

   "I will answer for Miss Farrell," I told her. "She'll be here at nine to-morrow."

   She started to thank me again, but I would not let her go on. I really could not stand it.

   "Very well, you will see," she said with a smile and left me.

   SHORTLY afterward Roland Quarles came striding down the hall. I opened the door to him. He was astonished to find a strange man in the room, for he did not recognize me without my Faxon make-up.

   "Enderby," I said, in response to his inquiring glance, "you met me here once before."

   "What's this hear down-stairs about Miss Hamerton being sick?" he demanded anxiously.

   "She has had a nervous breakdown," I replied.

   He was not satisfied.

   "What does that mean?" he demanded. "She was quite well yesterday."

   I shrugged.

   "Can I see her?"

   I shook my head.

   "I will speak to Mrs. Bleecker, then."

   "You can't see her, either."

   "Who are you?" he inquired, as so many others had done.

   I gave him my card, hoping that he would take the hint and save me further explanations. Not a bit of it!

   "'Investigator?' What does that mean — a detective?"

   "Precisely."

   "What's it all about?" he asked irritably. "Why are you looking at me like a policeman?"

   "Look at me closely," I said.

   He stared at me, angry and puzzled.

   "I have seen you before — more than once." Then his face changed. "Faxon!" he cried. "Is it Faxon?"

   "The same," I said.

   "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

   This parade of innocence began to exasperate me.

   "Do you need to ask?" I said.

   "Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't play with words!" he burst out. "Tell me what's the matter and be done with it!"

   "Miss Hamerton's pearl necklace was stolen from the theater two months ago. She engaged me to recover it."

   "Her pearls! Stolen!" he ejaculated, amazed. I could not have asked to see it better done.

   "Do you still want me to go on?" I asked.

   "Oh, drop the mystery!" he cried. "You fellows fatten on mystery!"

   "As Faxon, in the theater, I was perfectly sincere in my friendship for you," I went on. "I liked you; but little by little, against my will, I was forced to believe that you were the thief."

   This touched him, but not quite in the way I expected.

   "Me? The thief?" he gasped, and suddenly burst into harsh laughter. "How did you arrive at that?"

   I was no longer inclined to spare him. "In the first place, you provoked a bet with Miss Hamerton which induced her to wear the real pearls on the night they were stolen."

   His face turned grave.

   "True!" he said. "I forgot that. What else?"

   "On April 6 you deposited forty thousand dollars in cash in the Thirteenth National Bank."

   He paled.

   "Anything more?"

   "Do you care to explain where you got it?" I asked.

   "Not to you," he said proudly. "Go on with your story!"

   "My first clue was in the cryptic letter found on the stage."

   "I remember. You said you couldn't translate it."

   "But I did."

   "What's it got to do with me?"

   "Nothing; but I found a second letter, written in the same cryptograph and about the same matters, in the pocket of your coat."

   "That's a lie!" he said.

   "If you want to see it, it's at my office."

   "If you did find such a paper in my pocket, it was planted there!"

   "I should be glad to believe that you were not the man," I said mildly.

   "Spare me your assurances," he returned scornfully.

   He was silent for a while, thinking over what I had told him. Slowly horror grew in his face.

   "But — but this is only a devilish combination of unlucky circumstances," he stammered. "You haven't really proved anything."

   "The pearls have been recovered," I said.

   "Where?" he shot at me.

   "In your safe."

   His legs failed him suddenly. He half fell into a chair, staring at me witlessly.

   "Oh, my God!" he muttered huskily. "Those pearls hers!" I believe I smiled. "And you — you have told her this story?" he faltered.

   "That's what I was engaged for."

   "Oh, my God!" he reiterated blankly. "What shall I do?"

   His agony was genuine enough. In spite of myself, I was moved by it.

   "Better go," I said. "The matter will be hushed up, of course."

   "Hushed up!" he cried. "Never!"

   This theatrical pretense of innocence provoked me afresh.

   "Come, get out," I said; "and be thankful you're getting off so easily!"

   He paid no attention to me.

   "I must see her!" he muttered.

   "What do you expect to gain by bluffing now?" I said impatiently. "You must see that the game is up."

   "I will not leave here without seeing her," he insisted with a kind of dull obstinacy.

   "You have me at a disadvantage," I said bitterly. "You know I can't have you thrown out of the hotel without causing a scandal."

   He scarcely seemed to hear me.

   "I will go when she sends me," he muttered.

   "All right — my patience is equal to yours," I told him.

   So there we sat — he with his ghastly white face turned toward the door into the inner rooms, while I looked out of the window.

   To make matters worse, Mrs. Bleecker came clucking in. She, knowing nothing of what had just happened, fell on Quarles's neck, so to speak, and told him all her troubles with sidelong shots at me. He paid little attention to her, only repeating in his blank way:

   "I must see Irma!"

   "Of course!" Mrs. Bleecker cackled. "I'll tell her you're here."

   "Mrs. Bleecker, as a friend I advise you not to interfere," I said sternly.

   She went out, angrily flouncing her skirts at me.

   To my surprise, Miss Hamerton presently came in. I cannot say what led her to do it. Perhaps she was hoping against hope that Quarles could defend himself. There was no sign of weakness in her now. Her face was as composed as marble. Mrs. Bleecker did not return.

   "Irma," he cried, "send this fellow away!"

   I made haste to go, but she kept me.

   "Mr. Enderby must stay," she said. "He is your friend," she added.

   He made a gesture of utter despair. A hideous silence descended on the three of us.

   "You asked to see me," she said at last.

   "Irma, do you believe this of me?" he cried, like a soul out of hell.

   "I am willing to hear anything you have to say," she murmured.

   "What does evidence matter?" he pleaded. "Do you believe me capable of such a thing?"

   "Am I not forced to?" she returned in a low voice.

   His head dropped. I never saw such hopeless wretchedness in a man's face. I felt like an executioner.

   "Speak up, Mr. Quarles!" I said sharply. "We are sincerely anxious to believe in you."

   He shook his head.

   "It doesn't matter," he said in a stifled voice. "I doubt if I could clear myself. Anyway, I sha'n't try. It — it is killed!"

   He bent a look of fathomless reproach on her. "Good-by, Irma," he said quietly. "I'm glad I was the means of your getting your jewels back. I never knew they had been stolen."

   This to me was the purest exhibition of cheek I had ever met with. I was hard put to keep my hands off the man. If she had not been there —

   He went; and when I turned around Irma had gone back into the next room. I was angry through and through, and yet — and yet — a nagging little doubt teased me.

   So ended, as I thought, the case of the blue pearls. Little did I suspect what was on the way!

   THE following day was a blue one for me. Deprived of all the exciting activities of the past few weeks, I was at a loss what to do with myself. Moreover, I was dissatisfied with the result of those activities. I had won out, so to speak, but my client had not. For her only tragic unhappiness had come of it.

   Meanwhile a little inner voice continued to whisper that I had not got to the bottom of the case. I could not put that at young fellow's amazed and despairing face out of my mind. It did not fit into the theory of his guilt. On top of it all, I had had a quarrel with Sadie the night before.

   About noon my uncomfortable thoughts were broken into by the entrance of Sadie of herself, with storm-signals flying — to wit, a pair of flashing blue eyes and a red flag hoisted in either cheek. I had supposed that she was already on her way to Amityville with Miss Hamerton, where they were to stay at a sanatorium conducted by a doctor friend of mine.

   Before I could speak, she exploded like a bomb in my office.

   "Ben, you've been a fool!"

   "Eh?" I said, blinking and looking precious like one, I expect.

   She repeated it with amplifications.

   "So you said last night," I remarked.

   "But I hadn't seen her then."

   "Aren't you going to the country?" I asked, hoping to create a diversion.

   "Yes, at two o'clock; but I had to see you first."

   To tell me what you thought of me?"

   "To beg you to do something."

   "What is there to do?"

   "You have made a hideous mistake! Ruined both their lives!"

   I may have had my own doubts, but it wouldn't have been human to confess them in the face of an attack like this.

   "Easy, there!" I said sulkily. "Have you discovered any new evidence?"

   "Oh, evidence!" she cried scornfully. "I know he couldn't have stolen her pearls, and in your heart you know it, too."

   "Sorry," I returned sarcastically, "but in conducting my business I have to consult my head before my heart."

   "I know it!" she said bitterly. "That's why you've been a fool."

   "Well, next time I'll consult a clairvoyant."

   "Oh, don't try to be clever — it's too dreadful. If you had seen her! She will never act again. And he! He will probably kill himself, if he hasn't done it already."

   This struck a chill to my breast. Sadie had an intuitive sense that I could not afford to despise. At the same time, having been called a fool, I couldn't back down.

   "I don't see what better thing he can do," I remarked defiantly.

   "You can say that?" she said, aghast. "You don't mean it."

   A very real jealousy made me hot. That handsome young blackguard had all the women with him.

   "Are you in love with him, too?" I asked sarcastically.

   It was a mistake. She had me there.

   "You're doing your best to make me," she retorted.

   "What are you abusing me for?" I complained. "I did no more than what I was engaged to do."

   "She was distracted!" said Sadie. "She couldn't think for herself. She depended on you."

   "Well, I did the best I could for her," I argued doggedly. "You seem to think that I enjoyed doing it. There is a perfect case against him."

   "There is not!" she said quickly. "Your own evidence, which you set such store by, is full of holes."

   I invited her to point out the gaps.

   "One of your points against him is that he lately came into possession of a lot of money, presumably the proceeds of the theft. Yet you found the pearls on him, too. One fact contradicts the other."

   "How do I know what other activities he's been engaged in?"

   "You do not believe that!"

   "I beg your pardon," I said stiffly. "Permit me to know my own beliefs."

   "If it wasn't true, it wouldn't anger you."

   "I am not angry," I asserted, smiling in order to prove it.

   "How can I talk to you if you act like such a child?" cried Sadie.

   "Never mind my actions. Stick to his."

   "You know very well that he could not have carried out several successful robberies without a lot of experience. His whole life gives the lie to that. Have we not gone into every part of it?"

   "I know I found the pearls on him," I said doggedly. "They could not very well have been planted in a locked drawer in his own safe. He did not even claim that they were."

   "And that cryptogram," she went on, ignoring my argument. "I mean the first one. It didn't say so in so many words, but the inference was unmistakable that Miss Hamerton's pearls had been disposed of, and that part of the proceeds was waiting for the thief. How do you account for that?"

   I did not try to account for it. I pooh-poohed it.

   "He convicted himself," I insisted. "We invited him, we begged him to explain, and he could not."

   "Would not, you mean!"

   "What's the difference?"

   She favored me with an extraordinary glance of scorn.

   "And you set up to understand human nature!"

   "Well, let me have your understanding of it," I said sarcastically.

   "He was in love with her," said Sadie. "I suppose you don't question that?"

   "No; strange as it seems, I believe he was in love with her."

   "That makes goose-eggs of all your fine reasoning! Reason all night, and it and wouldn't make sense. He might have stolen anybody else's pearls, but never hers. It was she who wronged love in believing that he could. To find out that she suspected him killed his love dead. Losing that, what did he care about his reputation? If he does away with himself, it will be not because he was accused of a theft, but because she killed his trust in her, and he doesn't care to live without it."

   I listened to all this with an affected smile of superiority, but it reached me. Every word that the unhappy Quarles had uttered fitted in with Sadie's theory.

   "Suppose some one accused you of stealing Miss Hamerton's purse to buy me a present," she went on, artfully changing her tone. "I should make a tremendous virtuous fuss, of course; but in my heart I couldn't love you any less, though you might not have the sense to know it. But if they said you had stolen my purse to buy me something, how I should laugh! It's too silly for words."

   I was rapidly weakening, but it was confoundedly hard to own up.

   "The same with this case. You think I'm in love with Quarles because I defend him. That's just like a man! The truth is that what hurts me is to see you deceive yourself and then look so righteous about it."

   She was wielding double-edged sword.

   "But if the woman who loves him was deceived, surely I have some excuse," I said meekly.

   "That's the weakness of her character — or the penalty of her position, whichever you like. She is so surrounded by flattery and meanness that it has taught her to suspect even her lover."

   "But how did the pearls get into his safe?" I asked, begging for mercy.

   "I don't know. It's a mystery. I'm only trying to show you that you haven't solved the mystery yet." Once more she changed her tone, the witch! "I'm so keen to have you make a great success of the case, Ben! And I want to help a little."

   That completed the rout of my forces.

   "Sadie darling," I cried, "in my heart I feel the same as you. I would have given in at once if you hadn't begun by slapping my face!"

   There was a little private interlude here. Boss and operative were momentarily lost sight of.

   "Now let's get to work!" I said.

   "I hope it's not too late!" she returned sadly.

   She did not know me without my Faxon make-up, and refused any information. I suspected that she had been forbidden to speak. However, by adroit and sympathetic questioning, and because the poor old soul was bursting with her troubles, it finally came out with a rush. She thought her master had lost his mind, he had acted so strangely; but such was her awe of him that she had not dared to question his commands.

   All night long he had paced his bed-room and sitting-room, pausing only to burn papers and cherished mementoes in the grate. When she had risen from her bed and timidly inquired if he was ill, he had harshly ordered her back to her room. There she had lain trembling until morning, grieving because she thought she had offended him.

   He had left his breakfast untasted. Afterward he had called her to him. In a voice and manner totally unlike his own, he had announced that he was going away, and had given her instructions that terrified her. His furniture was to be sent to an auctioneer's under an assumed name, and was to be put up on the first sale day. She was to keep what it brought in lieu of wages. His clothes were to be sent to the Salvation Army. His jewelry and knickknacks she might sell or keep, as she chose.

   On second thoughts he had written out his instructions in the form of a letter to her, in case any of her acts should be questioned. He had then called a taxi from the stable he usually patronized, and had departed without any baggage. This last fact alarmed her more than all the rest.

   What she told me read fatally clear; but I was careful to make light of it to the grief-stricken old woman. I assumed an authority to which she willingly deferred. I ordered her to put the rooms in order, and not to make any other move until she heard from me again.

   She was vastly cheered. What she dwelt on most tragically was the necessity of sending all Quarles's beautiful suits to the ragged crew who profited by the Salvation Army's benefactions.

   I found out from the taxi stable that Quarles had been driven to the Pennsylvania Station. I got hold of his driver, a man whom he had frequently employed. The chauffeur had remarked the young actor's strange appearance this morning. On reaching the station Quarles had asked the porter who opened the cab door what time the next train left for Baltimore. On learning that he had but three minutes to catch it, he had thrust a bill into the driver's hand and rushed away.

   This had happened at ten o'clock; it was now nearly one. I had the same driver carry me to the station, where I telephoned Sadie, snatched a bite to eat, and caught the next express for the South. It was not the most cheerful journey I have taken. I had four hours to think over the tragic possibilities of my mistake, and it was small comfort to reflect that it was a natural mistake. With his three hours' start, Quarles had only too much time to put his unmistakable purpose into effect. My only hope was that he might instinctively be led to wait until night. Darkness has an invincible attraction for desperate souls.

   Arriving in Baltimore, I had the whole wide city to choose from, and not a clue. There was no chance of anybody's having marked him in the crowd that left the train there. However, I happened to know of a certain select hotel patronized by the élite of the profession, and I went there on a chance.

   The clerk whom I saw did not know Mr. Quarles; but upon my describing the actor, he said that such a young man had been in the hotel during the afternoon. He was not registered there. The guardian of the desk recollected him because he had asked an unusual question. Did the clerk know where there was a taxidermist in town? Together they had looked up an address in the business directory, and the young man had departed. He had not returned.

   I hastened to the taxidermist's, wondering greatly what could have been Quarles's errand in such a place. Casting back in my mind, I remembered having seen several little cases of mounted butterflies among his treasures. There was something pathetically innocent in the wide-open trail the young fellow was leaving behind him. This surely was no experienced criminal!

   The store was kept by a benignant old man who somehow seemed to belong with the stuffed birds and pet dogs that lined the walls of his little place. I also saw frames of empaled beetles and butterflies, such as I had seen in Quarles's rooms. The entire place had an Old-World look.

   The old fellow was a kindly, garrulous soul who required not the slightest pressure to set him talking. Quarles, it appeared, had made quite an impression on him.

   "A handsome young fellow," he said, "and such a gentleman!"

   The stranger, he told me, had been attracted into his shop by the butterflies, and they had fallen into talk about butterfly-hunting, of which sport both were devotees. Quarles had finally purchased three beautiful specimens of something with a terrible Latin name.

   As he was about to leave, Quarles had remarked that he was on his way out of town for a jaunt, and he had neglected to provide himself with any cyanid. It seems that cyanid is what they use to kill the insects. In all innocence the old man had furnished a vial of it, and with one more question his customer had departed. Where was there a second-hand clothes-dealer?

   Cyanid of potassium, one of the deadliest of poisons! I hastened to the second-hand store with a sickness at the heart.

   They remembered Quarles here, too. The story he had told was that he wanted some old clothes to wear at a masquerade. He had been furnished with a complete outfit — hat, suit, shirt, socks, and shoes.

   While the things were being wrapped up, he had mentioned idly that he was a stranger in town, and had a couple of hours to kill. He wanted to know of a trolley-line that would take him out into the country. The storekeeper had recommended the Annapolis line as the pleasantest ride on a mild evening. This had been about four o'clock, and it was now a little after six. I had gained on him a little.

   I found that the cars started for Annapolis every half-hour. By good luck the car which had left at four o'clock returned while I was waiting in the station. I interviewed the conductor, who remembered Quarles. His attention had been attracted to the young actor because, although he held a ticket to Annapolis, he had suddenly risen and left the car at the Severn River bridge.

   I took the six thirty car for Annapolis. The conductor told me that the station at the bridge was used principally by summer residents, who had their motor-boats meet them at that point. At this season, early in May, there was but little business there.

   It was almost dark when I got off — a balmy spring evening. It was a lonely-looking spot. There was a little settlement up a hill, with a path from the station, but I guessed that if my man had been attracted by the loneliness of the place he would not turn toward any human habitation.

   I looked about. Crossing the track and climbing down to a deserted strip of beach beside the wide river, I found with my flash-light that a solitary person had gone that way before me wearing a shapely shoe. This would surely be Quarles.

   The tracks drew me along beside the river, toward its mouth, which was in view. On the other side, farther down, sparkled the lights of the Naval Academy.

   Rounding a point, in a little cove hidden from the world I found the remains of a fire on the sand. The embers were still glowing. Poking among them, I found scraps of scorched felt and woolen cloth, and bits of broken glass. Here, obviously, Quarles had changed his clothes, and had destroyed the expensive garments he had been wearing. Evidently he was counting on the fact that little trouble is taken to establish the identity of a poorly dressed suicide.

   The glass, no doubt, was what remained of the case of butterflies that he had bought. Some coins in the ashes added their mute testimony to his desperate intention.

   I hurried on. The footprints recommenced beyond the fire, their shape somewhat altered, for he had changed his shoes with the rest. His fine shoes he must have filled with stones and thrown into the river, for I found no remains of leather in the fire.

   I hoped that with the time he had spent doing all this he could not now be more than a short distance ahead of me. Unfortunately, half a minute — nay, half of that — would be enough for him to accomplish his purpose.

   I came to the main road from Baltimore to Annapolis, which crosses the Severn by another long bridge. Automobiles crossed it at intervals. Since the footprints were not continued in the sand across the road, it was clear that he had turned into it, one way or the other.

   The river seemed likeliest. I started out on the bridge, dreading most of all to hear a splash just out of my reach. It was now quite dark.

   Out in the middle of the bridge, close to the draw, I came upon a motionless, slouching figure with a battered hat pulled down over the face. Notwithstanding the shapeless clothes, the tall slenderness was unmistakable. He was leaning with his elbows on the guard-rail, regarding something that he held in one hand. The object caught a spark from the red light of the draw overhead. It was the vial of cyanid.

   My heart bounded with relief. I was in time — but only just.

   "Quarles!" I said softly.

   He straightened up with a terrified, hissing intake of the breath. I turned the flash-light on myself to save lengthy explanations.

   "You!" he said after a moment, in a low, bitter tone. "Why must you dog me here?"

   "I am your friend," I replied.

   He laughed.

   "Friend!" he returned. "That's good!" Then his tone changed. "You'd better be on your way," he said threateningly.

   "I'm in no mood for fooling."

   "I've been trying to overtake you since noon," I said, merely to be saying something. An instinct told me that there was nothing like a little conversation to let down a desperate man.

   "Why, in Heaven's name?" he demanded. "What good am I to you now?"

   "I no longer believe you guilty."

   "I don't care a tinker's curse what you believe!"

   "I want you to help me find the thief."

   "It's nothing to me who took the pearls. She's got 'em back again. You'd better go on. I won't stand for any interference."

   "You won't do it now," I said.

   "Won't I?"

   He made a move to uncork the little vial. I struck his wrist, and it fell to the ground. We searched for it frantically in the dark. I had the light, and I saw it first. I put my heel on it, and ground the fragile, deadly thing into the planks of the bridge floor. He cursed me.

   "There is still the water," I said.

   "I'm a swimmer," he said sullenly. "I couldn't go down. I meant to climb on the rail and take the stuff, so that it would look like drowning. But there are plenty of ways!"

   "Be a man and live!" I said.

   He laughed again.

   "There's nothing in that cant for a man who's sick of the game."

   "Live for her sake," I hazarded. "She loves you!"

   "You've mistaken your job, old man," he said with grim amusement. "You ought to be a playwright. Write her a play. She's a great actress. Yah, I'm sick of it! Love? There's no such thing — not in women! This is real, anyhow."

   I had got him talking. Something told me that the crisis was past. I took a new tack.

   "She certainly has treated you badly," I said. "I don't wonder you're sore. I know just how you feel."

   He turned on me with clenched fist and a furious command to be silent.

   "It's no confounded policeman's business what I feel!"

   "Revenge is sweet," I murmured.

   It brought him up all standing. In the dark I heard him breathing quickly.

   "Do you want to crawl away like a cur and die in a hole?" I asked.

   "Why can't you let me alone?" he said fretfully. "What do you want to drag me back for?"

   I saw that I had him going now.

   "Make her suffer," I urged. "The most perfect revenge in the world is yours if you want it, because she loves you."

   " What are you getting at?"

   "Prove your innocence to her."

   "I doubt if I could," he said weakly. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I seem to be caught in a net."

   "I am offering to help you."

   "What's your game?" he demanded suspiciously.

   "I've made a serious mistake," I said. "I've got my professional reputation to think of. Besides, I'm only human. I don't want to have your untimely end on my conscience."

   "It needn't be. I'm my own master."

   I decided to risk all on one throw. I laid a hand on his shoulder.

   "Look here," I said frankly, "you and I are not strangers. We took to each other from the first, though I happened to be wearing a disguise. I have suffered deeply all day. Forgive me my part in yesterday's affair, and be my friend. Friendship isn't such a common thing, in spite of all the talk about it. I should think you'd recognize the real article when it's offered to you."

   "Rubbish!" he grumbled. "I don't believe in friendship. I have never had a real friend." But he didn't shake my hand off.

   "Try me!"

   "Oh, well, you've spoiled it for to-night, anyway. I'll listen to what you've got to say. Where can we go? I haven't a cent — nothing but these filthy rags."

   "That's a trifle," I said joyfully. "I'll find a place!"

   WE walked on across the bridge into the town of Annapolis. First I took Roland to a lunch-room and commanded him to eat. I had a time getting him to swallow the first mouthful; but that once down, he developed a ravenous appetite. I suppose he had not eaten in thirty hours.

   It was comical to see how, with a stomachful of hot food inside him, a certain zest in living renewed itself. The more his resolution weakened, the more loudly and cynically he inveighed against life. But he had a sense of humor. He suddenly became conscious of the absurdity of his attitude, and we began to laugh together.

   From that moment he was safe, and he was mine. There is nothing to cement a friendship like laughter.

   Afterward I got a room in an obscure hotel. Roland sat down on the edge of the bed and proceeded to give me his version of the matters that perplexed me so. In the middle of a sentence he fell over and slept like a dead man. I stole out and telegraphed Sadie, at Amityville, that I had found him in time, and that he was safe and sound.

   Returning, I sat by the hour watching him. My heart was soft for the human creature whom I had snatched from the brink. He looked very boyish and appealing as he lay sleeping. He seemed years younger than I. I cannot tell you how glad I was to think that there was warmth in the young body and sentience under the shut lids.

   Shortly after midnight he awoke as suddenly and thoroughly as he had fallen asleep. Then he wanted to talk. Indeed, he was bursting with talk. I swallowed my yawns and set myself to listen. I let him tell the story in his own way, asking no questions.

   For a long time I listened to what I already knew — the tale of his jealous, hopeless passion for Irma Hamerton. Sometimes he had suspected that she inclined toward him, but it seemed preposterous to ask her to give up her profession for him. On the other hand, he knew he could not endure sharing his wife with the public. He had decided to go away without speaking — and then the miraculous legacy had dropped from the skies.

   "Tell me all about that," I commanded.

   "I promised not to tell," he said reluctantly.

   "This is a matter of life and death. Why was a promise exacted?"

   "To avoid publicity."

   "There will be none,"I promised. "I pledge myself to guard the secret as well as you could."

   "I destroyed the letter I got, with the others," he said; "but I read it so often that I can give it to you almost word for word."

   "Too bad it was destroyed!"

   "Oh, you can verify the contents by the Amsterdam Trust Company, who paid me the money."

   "But if you have a clear case, what did you run away for?" I asked, amazed.

   "You will never understand," he said with a wry smile. "When I saw that Irma believed I was capable of robbing her, I seemed to die at that moment. What did I care about my case?"

   Hearing that, my opinion of Sadie's perspicacity went up marvelously.

   "Go on!" I said.

   I took down the letter from his dictation. It was written, he said, on expensive note-paper, without address, crest, or seal, in a large and somewhat old-fashioned feminine hand.

DEAR MR. QUARLES:

   Although you have never heard of me, I think of you as my dearest friend. I have followed your career from the time of your first appearance on the stage. I am one of those unfortunates who, condemned to live, are cut off from life. I watch life pass from behind my iron screen. It is you, who, all unconscious, have supplied me with a dream to cheat my emptiness. I have warmed my cold hands at your fire.

   Now they tell me my release is at hand. I wish to show my gratitude to you in the only way that is possible to me. An artist's career is difficult and uncertain. I want to remove a little of the uncertainty from yours.

   I must avoid giving rise to silly gossip, which would grieve my relatives. To avoid the publicity of probate I am making secret arrangements beforehand. An old friend will carry out my wishes for me when I am gone.

   The doctors give me a week longer. Upon my death this letter will be mailed to you. You will then hear from the Amsterdam Trust Company that a sum of money awaits your order. You will never know my name; but if you should let even the bare facts become known, some busybody would eventually connect them with my name, and unhappy gossip result. Therefore I ask you, as a man of honor, to keep the whole transaction locked in your breast.

   "That is all," said Roland. "It was signed: 'Your grateful friend.'"

   "Did you look in the recent obituaries for a clue?" I asked.

   "Yes," he confessed. "There was none."

   "Go ahead with your story. We'll return to the letter later."

   "At first I thought it was a hoax," he resumed; "but sure enough, in two or three days I received a letter from the trust company, asking me to call. I saw the president. He said that the sum of forty thousand dollars had been deposited with them, to be turned over to me in cash. He said it had been bequeathed to me by one who desired to remain unknown. He said that he himself did not know who my benefactor was. He had dealt with a lawyer. He said that there was but one condition attached to the legacy — that I would give my word never to speak of the matter. I had met this Mr. Ambler, the president, and he had seen me act, so there was no difficulty about identifying me. I left his office carrying the money, and carried it to my own bank to deposit. That is all there is to that."

   "Good!" I said. "The Amsterdam Trust Company is a solid institution, and, the president a well-known man. They will still be there, if we need them."

   "It mustn't get into the newspapers," Quarles said nervously.

   "Trust me for that. I'm not going to make you break your word. Now about the bet you made with Miss Hamerton."

   He winced at the sound of her name.

   "There's no more in that than appears on the surface," he said irritably. "I couldn't have told the paste from the genuine. I wanted to give her a box of gloves; but she never claimed them, and I forgot about it."

   "The cryptogram you have already explained," said I.

   "I did not know there was such a paper in my pocket. Hold on!" he cried suddenly. "About that bet — I have just remembered that I once had a talk about precious stones — pearls — with a man in the company."

   "Milbourne?"

   "Sure! How did you know?"

   "I believe he took the necklace; but it's going to be a job to prove it."

   "It was just a trifling conversation," Roland resumed, thinking hard. "I can't remember exactly. He remarked the beauty and oddity of Ir— of Miss Hamerton's pearls. I think he said he hoped that she did not risk wearing real ones on the stage. That may have been to find out if I knew they were artificial. I told him she did not wear the real gems. There was more talk. He seemed to know about pearls, and I believe I asked him how to tell the real from the artificial. I never thought of it then, but looking back I see that it may have been that talk which gave me the idea of making a bet with her. Oh, I have been a fool!"

   "This is all interesting," I said, "but it doesn't give us anything solid to go on. Now for the main thing. How did the real pearls get into your safe?"

   Roland struck his forehead.

   "I have been everybody's dupe!" he groaned.

   "It's a part we all have to play occasionally," I said soothingly. "Go ahead!"

   "About this time I began to get circular letters from a firm of jewelers called Jones & Sanford, with an address on Maiden Lane, where all the jewelers used to be. They were facsimile letters, very well written."

   "The kind that are made to look like personal letters, but, like false teeth, seldom deceive anybody?"

   "Precisely. I got one every few days. They were all to the effect that the writers, as brokers, were prepared to sell precious stones at prices much under those asked by the big jewelers. There was a lot of rigmarole about saving on overhead charges, interest on valuable stocks, and so on — about what you would expect in such letters. There were a lot of imposing-looking references, too. At first I paid no attention to the letters; precious stones didn't interest me. But when I got all that money I began to read them. You see, I — I wanted to make Irma a present, and I knew she loved pearls better than anything else in the world."

   I let out a whistle of astonishment.

   "Do you mean to say you bought Miss Hamerton's pearls with the idea of presenting her with them, to add to her collection?"

   He nodded shamefacedly.

   "I must have done. Of course, I didn't know she had been robbed."

   "How long had you had them?"

   "Just a few days."

   He told me that he had asked Miss Hamerton to marry him, and intended the necklace for a wedding-gift if she consented.

   "Well, you were a downy bird!" I exclaimed.

   "Wait till I tell you," he said. "They were a slick pair! You might have been taken in yourself."

   "Did they know you?" I asked, still full of amazement.

   "Certainly. I paid for the pearls with a check — a certified check."

   "Which they cashed within half an hour?"

   "Perhaps. I never inquired."

   "Sold Miss Hamerton's pearls back to Miss Hamerton's leading man!" I cried. "My boy, we have something out of the common in crooks to deal with!"

   "They had a well-furnished suite on an upper floor of a first-class office-building," he resumed. "I was there three or four times. I saw other customers coming and going. Everything was business-like and looked all right. Even the stenographer had a prim, New England air. They showed me all kinds of precious stones. I bit at the pearls, because I recognized that they were the same kind Irma had. They asked eight thousand dollars for them."

   "You knew, didn't you, that Miss Hamerton's necklace was worth much more than that?"

   "Yes; but I had been told that hers were very fine and perfect. I supposed these to be not quite so good."

   "And so you paid your money on a chance and took them home?"

   "Not quite so fast as that. The jewelers seemed to take it as a matter of course that I would have the pearls examined by an expert before purchasing. They suggested that I should take them up to Dunsany's."

   "Dunsany's!"I repeated, amazed.

   "Yes. Wasn't that enough to lull suspicion? Dunsany's is more than a jewelry-store; it's a national institution."

   "But you never took them there?"

   "Indeed I did," was the surprising answer. "Jones & Sanford's clerk went with me. We saw Mr. Frear, the firm's expert on pearls."

   I whistled again. Frear, the man at Dunsany's to whom I had told my little story of the fiction-writer, and who had looked so queer when I mentioned blue pearls!

   "Large gentleman, elegantly dressed, with a face like a boiled dumpling?"

   "Sure!" cried Roland. "Do you know him, too?"

   "Go on with your story," I said.

   "Mr. Frear examined the pearls and told me they were genuine and of good quality. He valued them at about twelve thousand dollars."

   "The deuce he did!" I cried. "This case is spreading wider and wider. Frear is in the gang, too. To think of their having an ally in Dunsany's!"

   "How do you know they have?"

   "Because Frear, like everybody else in the trade, had been informed that the only necklace of blue-black pearls in the world had been stolen. He knew, moreover, that it was worth —" But here prudence stopped my tongue.

   "Worth what?" asked Roland.

   "Well, much more than twelve thousand dollars."

   "The only blue pearls in the world?" he said, puzzled.

   "There's a lot about this necklace that you don't know," I said, smiling. "All in good time! Go on with your story!"

   "Well, that's all, isn't it?" said he. "At least, you know the rest. Why, these fellows were so careful of details, you will even find their imprint in gold inside the case — Jones & Sanford, such and such a number Maiden Lane."

   "H-m! I have a case on my hands now!"I said meditatively. "It may take me six months or more to clean this up!"

   "I'll work at it with you," Quarles volunteered.

   "My dear fellow, I like you better every minute," I said, smiling at him; "but you'd make the worst detective in the world."

   "Oh, well, perhaps I would," he said.

   "There's no need for you to await the outcome of the case," I said. "We have the evidence right in hand to clear you. I'll lay it before Miss Hamerton to-morrow morning."

   My young friend surprised me again. He leaped up with his dark eyes positively blazing.

   "You'll do nothing of the kind!" he cried passionately. "That affair is done — done forever. If you interfere, I won't be responsible for the consequences. She has her pearls back. Let her be. My time will come when she reads in the newspapers about the capture and the trial of the real thieves."

   BACK in New York, the next day, I made haste to get to work on the half-dozen clues with which Roland had furnished me.

   I may say, in passing, though the visit had no important results, that I called on Mr. Ambler of the Amsterdam Trust Company. At first he declined to give me any information whatever; but when I hinted that a certain serious suspicion rested on Quarles, he corroborated Roland's story as far as he knew it. He declined to give me the name of the attorney who had brought the money to the bank.

   "My confirmation of Mr. Quarles's story should be amply sufficient to clear him," he said, with the dignified air of a bank president.

   "Undoubtedly," I said, bowing, and left.

   Since there appeared to be no immediate connection between Roland's legacy and the theft of the pearls, I let that go for the present.

   I went to the address of the jewelers on Maiden Lane, but found, as I expected, that the birds had flown. An irate renting-agent aired his opinion of Messrs. Jones & Sanford, but could give me no information of their whereabouts. They had leased the offices for a year, and after five weeks' tenancy had quietly moved out.

   "Don't you ask references from prospective tenants?" I asked.

   "They gave first-rate references," he mourned.

   I took down the names of their references for future use. One of them was Mr. Frear, of Dunsany & Co.

   My next call was upon Mr. Alfred Mount, in his office behind the store of exquisite fashion. His greeting, while polite, was slightly cooler than of yore. As a man of the world, I felt that I was expected to gather from it that our relations were now at an end. It warned me to be wary. I was already on my guard, because I knew that Mount hated Roland Quarles and hoped to profit by his disgrace.

   "Anything new?" he asked casually.

   "Yes — and no," I said. "I am not satisfied that we have got quite to the bottom of our case."

   "Do we ever get quite to the bottom of anything?" Mount suggested.

   "I do not believe that Quarles was alone in this," I said as a feeler.

   "What makes you think so?" he asked quickly.

   "Nothing definite," I replied; "just a feeling."

   Mount only shrugged.

   "I believe that expert jewel-thieves made a tool of him," I went on.

   "It is possible," said Mount, looking bored.

   "If so, it is much to the interest of your business to have them run down and put out of the way. I have come to ask for your cooperation."

   "My dear sir," Mount replied with his indulgent, worldly smile, "the world is full of trouble. I do not try to escape my share. I face it like a man, or as near like a man as I can; but I never go searching for more. We have by your skill recovered the jewels. To me, the reasons for not pursuing the matter any further are obvious. Better let well enough alone!"

   I appeared to give in to him.

   "Perhaps you're right. I thought I saw a chance to earn a little glory."

   "There will be plenty of opportunities for that," he said affably. "You can count on me."

   We parted in friendly fashion. So much for Mr. Alfred Mount! At least, he would never be able to say later that I had not given him his chance.

   I went straight to the magnificent marble building which houses the establishment of Dunsany & Co. and asked boldly for Mr. Walter Dunsany, great-grandson of the founder of the house and its present head. I was admitted without difficulty, and I found him a jeweler and a man of affairs of a type very different from the gentleman whom I had just interviewed.

   Mr. Dunsany was a simple, unassuming man, direct and outspoken. I was strongly attracted to him, and I may say without vanity that he seemed to like me. From the first he trusted me more than I had any right to expect.

   At this time he was a man of about forty-five, somewhat bald, and beginning to be corpulent, but with a humorous, eager, youthful glance. He glanced up from my card with a whimsical smile.

   "'Confidential investigator'? More trouble, I suppose!"

   "I'm afraid so," I said. "Have you an employee named Frear, an expert on pearls?"

   "I had until a few days ago." An exclamation of disappointment escaped me. "What's the matter with Frear?" Mr. Dunsany asked.

   "I suppose you don't know where he is now?"

   "On his way back to Holland, I suppose. He came from there ten years ago. Why?"

   "One more question first. I am assuming that you know that a certain famous necklace of blue pearls has been stolen?"

   "Mount's pearls? Certainly. Everybody in the trade was advised."

   "You are sure that Frear knew of it?"

   "Certainly. It was his business first."

   "Yet that necklace was brought into your store a week or so ago by a man who was considering the purchase of it. He submitted it to Frear, who pronounced the stones genuine, and said that the necklace was worth about twelve thousand dollars."

   Mr. Dunsany jumped up and paced the room agitatedly.

   "Frear!" he exclaimed. "Impossible! You are sure of your facts?"

   I described the operations of Messrs. Jones & Sanford.

   "Not impossible, I suppose," he said more quietly. "This sort of thing has happened to me before. I doubt if there was ever a time when I was not harboring some thief or another. They never steal from me, you understand. They are the pickets, the outposts, who watch where the jewels go, and report to headquarters. But Frear! He had been with me for ten years. He had an instinct for pearls!"

   "Headquarters?" I said eagerly. Then you agree with me that there is an organized gang at work?"

   "That's no secret," he said. "Every jeweler knows that there is a kind of corporation of jewel-thieves. It is probably ten years old, and better organized and administered than our own association."

   "Why don't you break it up?"

   "Break it up!" he echoed. "It is my dearest ambition! There has seldom been a meeting of our association but what I have urged with all my eloquence that we should get together and break up the thief trust. The others will not support me. Everybody suspects that he has spies in his establishment — perhaps, like Frear, in a responsible position. The crooks seem to have us where they want us. They have never robbed us, you see. There is a sort of unwritten agreement — you leave us alone, and we'll leave you. The other men in the association say: 'If our customers are careless with their jewels, we are not responsible.' But I say we are! These crooks have put us in a position where, if we do not go after them, we ay be said to be in league with them."

   "Mr. Mount is a member of the association, I suppose?"

   "Mount? Oh, yes; he's the president. To give Mount credit, I must say that he has always supported me in this matter, though not so warmly as I would have liked. But I am considered a fanatic."

   "Why don't you and he do it together?" I asked.

   "He won't go into it without the backing of the association."

   "Why don't you go it alone?" I said. "You are powerful."

   He glanced at me sharply.

   "I will when I see my way," he replied. "Such police-officers and detectives as have happened to come under my observation have not seemed to me the right men for the job. When I find my man —"

   "Will you consider me as an applicant for the job?" I asked quietly.

   He studied me hard.

   "I should be difficult to satisfy," he warned me.

   "First of all, you would like to have references," I said. There were some good men who backed me, and I gave him their names.

   "How about Mount?" he asked.

   "I have already applied to him for the job," I said frankly, "and was turned down. He is satisfied with the recovery of the pearls. As long as he has refused to go in, I think it would be better not to let him know about our plans. That, however, is up to you."

   "I shall not let him know," Mr. Dunsany said briefly.

   To make a long story short, I succeeded in satisfying Mr. Dunsany of my fitness to undertake the matter in hand. We concluded a defensive and offensive alliance, and decided to move against the enemy at once.

(To be continued in the October number of MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE)