a poor sort of sport, Crenshaw. You'd be better at ping-pong or
croquet. This matter of--letters, and cabs, is far beyond your calibre;
it's not in your class."

"We haven't reached the end of the matter, my adroit friend," gritted
Crenshaw. "My turn will come, never fear."

"A far day, monsieur, a far day!" said Harleston lightly. "Meanwhile,
with your permission, we will have a look at the contents of your
pockets. First, your pocketbook."

He unbuttoned the other's coat, put in his hand, and drew out the book.

"Attend, please," said he, "so you can see that I replace every
article."

Crenshaw's only answer was a contemptuous shrug.

A goodly wad of yellow backs of large denominations, and some visiting
cards, no two of which bore the same name, were the contents of the
pocketbook.

"You must have had some difficulty in keeping track of yourself,"
Harleston remarked, as he made a note of the names.

Then he returned the bills and the cards to the book, and put it back in
Crenshaw's pocket.

"It's unwise to carry so much money about you," he remarked; "it induces
spending, as well as provokes attack."

"What's that to you?" replied Crenshaw angrily.

"Nothing whatever--it's merely a word of advice to one who seems to need
it. Now for the other pockets."

The coat yielded nothing additional; the waist-coat, only a few matches
and an open-faced gold watch, which Harleston inspected rather carefully
both inside and out; the trousers, a couple of handkerchiefs with the
initial C in the corner, some silver, and a small bunch of keys--and in
the fob pocket a crumpled note, with the odour of carnations clinging to
it.

Harleston glanced at Crenshaw as he opened the note--and caught a sly
look in his eyes.

"Something doing, Crenshaw?" he queried.

Another shrug was Crenshaw's answer--and the sly look grew into a sly
smile.

The note, apparently in a woman's handwriting, was in French, and
contained five words and an initial:

_A l'aube du jour.
M._

Harleston looked at it long enough to fix in his mind the penmanship and
to mark the little eccentricities of style. Then he folded it and put it
in Crenshaw's outside pocket.

"Thank you!" said he, with an amused smile.

"You forgot to look in the soles of my shoes?" Crenshaw jeered.

"Someone else will do that," Harleston replied.

"Someone else?" Crenshaw inflected.

"The police always search prisoners, I believe."

"My God, you don't inte