it would not be noticed. Nor was it; the trap worked perfectly--an
optical siphon, as it may be called--and the secret was mine."

"And now?"

"Wait until to-morrow," said Indiman.

For the fiftieth time the game of solitaire was in progress, and on
this occasion it seemed as though the combinations were actually coming
out. Remember, that in the final fall of the cards it was necessary
that they should be in four packs, headed by the ace of clubs, king of
diamonds, queen of spades, and knave of hearts. Already the first two
ranks had been completed; it all depended upon the disposition of the
few remaining cards.

"The queen of spades is buried," said L. Hernandez, with a sneer. "You
have failed again."

"I think not," replied Indiman, calmly. "I am sure that the last card
is the knave of hearts." This was my cue. I stepped to the door and
made an imperceptible signal to Brownson, who, with two other
plain-clothes men, was lounging in a door-way across the street. They
seemed eternally slow in obeying; I felt the muscles in my throat
contracting with nervous excitement as I turned again to watch the
solitaire.

But two cards remained to be played; they lay face downward upon the
table. If the upper one were the queen of spades, the packets would be
completed in their proper order and the solitaire would be made; if it
were the knave of hearts, the game would again be lost. Slowly--oh, so
slowly--Indiman turned the first card.

"Knave!" shouted L. Hernandez, exultingly. Then she stopped and went
white. It was not the knave of hearts, but the queen of spades, and
over it had been pasted a small carte-de-visite photograph--that of a
man dressed in the coarse uniform of one of the Russian penal
settlements. With lightning swiftness Indiman leaned forward and
twitched the wig from L. Hernandez's head; the man himself sat there
before our eyes.

Brownson and his bull-dogs stood at the door, revolvers in hand. But
there was no need. The squat, ungainly figure had fallen forward upon
the counter, crushing the horrible nightmare of a hat of which I have
so often spoken, and which, quite by chance, as it seemed, had been
lying there. Brownson sprang forward and raised the limp body. The red,
waxen apple had been broken into a dozen pieces. Among them lay the
fragments of a fragile glass phial, and the smell of almonds was in the
air.

"Prussic acid," said Brownson, sententiously. "He wasn't the kind to be
taken aliv