possibility that the sketch belonged to some detective,
and was intended for identification of the picture on the glass door at
X----.

"You can't be sure of anything that is only lip deep, but that was the
account telephoned to us. There is a reward of twenty dollars if the
book is delivered by eight P.M.; after that time, ten dollars, and
directions left by which to forward it to London. He said it was
worthless to anybody else, but contained a lot of pictures he valued."

"I do not want the reward, but before I surrender the portfolio, I must
see the owner."

"Why?"

"For reasons that concern only myself. He can come here, and claim his
property; or I will take it to him, and restore it, after he has
answered some questions. You are quite welcome to the reward, which I
am sure you merit because of your promptness and circumspection. Will
you notify him that he can obtain his book by calling at the
'Anchorage'?"

"Our instructions are, to deliver the book at Room 213, Hotel Lucullus.
It is now four o'clock."

"I will not surrender the book to you; but I will accompany you to the
hotel, and deliver it to the owner in your presence. Let us lose no
time."

"Very well. Sister, I'll keep a little behind, and jump on the first
red star car that passes down. Look out for me on the platform, and
I'll stop the car for you."

"Thank you," said Beryl, wondering whether the sanctity of her garb
exacted this mark of deference, or whether the instinctive chivalry of
American manhood prompted him to spare her the appearance of police
surveillance.

Keeping her in sight, he loitered until they found themselves on the
same car, where the officer, apparently engrossed by his cigarette,
retained his stand on the rear platform. In front of the hotel two
omnibuses were discharging their human freight, and in the confusion,
Beryl and her escort passed unobserved into the building. He motioned
her into one of the reception rooms on the second floor, and made his
way to the office.

Drawing her quaint bonnet as far over her face as possible, and
straightening her veil, Beryl sat down on a sofa and tried to quiet the
beating of her pulses, the nervous tremor that shook her. She had
ventured shyly out of her covert, and like all other hunted creatures,
trembled at her own daring in making capture feasible. Memory rendered
her vaguely apprehensive; bitter experience quickened her suspicions.

Was she running straight into some f