clared. "Come here!"

He drew Peter to the window. They were on the twelfth story, and to
a European there was something magnificent in that tangled mass of
buildings threaded by the elevated railway, with its screaming trains,
the clearness of the atmosphere, and in the white streets below, like
polished belts through which the swarms of people streamed like insects.

"Imagine it all lit up!" Sogrange exclaimed. "The sky-signs all ablaze,
the flashing of fire from those cable wires, the lights glittering from
those tall buildings! This is a wonderful place, Baron. We must see it.
Ring for the bill. Order one of those magnificent omnibuses. Press the
button, too, for the personage whom they call the valet. Perhaps, with a
little gentle persuasion, he could be induced to pack our clothes."

With his finger upon the hell, Peter hesitated. He, too, loved
adventures, but the gloom of a presentiment had momentarily depressed
him.

"We are marked men, remember, Sogrange," he said. "An escapade of this
sort means a certain amount of risk, even in New York."

Sogrange laughed.

"Bernadine caught the midday steamer! We have no enemies here that I
know of."

Peter pressed the button. An hour or so later, the Marquis de Sogrange
and Peter, Baron de Grost, took their leave of New York.

They chose a hotel on Broadway, within a stone's throw of Rector's.
Peter, with whitened hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, a slouch hat and
a fur coat, passed easily enough for an English maker of electrical
instruments; while Sogrange, shabbier, and in ready-made American
clothes, was transformed into a Canadian having some connection with the
theatrical business. They plunged into the heart of New York life, and
found the whole thing like a tonic. The intense vitality of the people,
the pandemonium of Broadway at midnight, with its flaming illuminations,
its eager crowd, its inimitable restlessness, fascinated them both.
Sogrange, indeed, remembering the decadent languor of the crowds of
pleasure seekers thronging his own boulevards, was never weary of
watching these men and women. They passed from the streets to the
restaurants, from the restaurants to the theatre, out into the streets
again, back to the restaurants, and once more into the streets. Sogrange
was like a glutton. The mention of bed was hateful to him. For three
days they existed without a moment's boredom.

On the fourth evening, Peter found Sogrange deep in conversation with