own handsome
automobile was placed at their service.

"This kind of breaks me all up," he declared, as he gave the
instructions to the chauffeur. "If there were two men on the face of
this earth whom I'd have been proud to meet in a friendly sort of way,
it's you two."

"We bear no malice, Mr. Burr," Sogrange assured him. "You can, if
you will do us the honor, lunch with us to-morrow at one o'clock at
Rector's. My friend here is quite interested in the Count von Hern, and
he would probably like to hear exactly how this affair was arranged."

"I'll be there, sure," Philip Burr promised, with a farewell wave of the
hand.

Sogrange and Peter drove back towards their hotel in silence. It was
only when they emerged into the civilized part of the city that Sogrange
began to laugh softly.

"My friend," he murmured, "you bluffed fairly well, but you were afraid.
Oh, how I smiled to see your fingers close round the butt of that
revolver!"

"What about you?" Peter asked, gruffly. "You don't suppose you took me
in, do you?"

Sogrange smiled.

"I had two reasons for coming to New York," he said. "One we
accomplished upon the steamer. The other was--"

"Well?"

"To reply personally to this letter of Mr. Philip Burr," Sogrange
replied, "which letter, by the bye, was dated from 15, 100th Street, New
York. An ordinary visit there would have been useless to me. Something
of this sort was necessary."

"Then you knew!" Peter gasped. "Notwithstanding all your bravado, you
knew!"

"I had a very fair idea," Sogrange admitted. "Don't be annoyed with me,
my friend. You have had a little experience. It is all useful. It isn't
the first time you've looked death in the face. Adventures come to some
men unasked. You, I think, were born with the habit of them."

Peter smiled. They had reached the hotel courtyard and he raised himself
stiffly.

"There's a little fable about the pitcher that went once too often
to the well," he remarked. "I have had my share of luck--more than my
share. The end must come sometime, you know."

"Is this superstition?" Sogrange asked.

"Superstition, pure and simple," Peter confessed, taking his key from
the office. "It doesn't alter anything. I am fatalist enough to shrug
my shoulders and move on. But I tell you, Sogrange," he added, after a
moment's pause, "I wouldn't admit it to any one else in the world, but
I am afraid of Bernadine. I have had the best of it so often. It
can't last. In all w