and comfort.

Seeing Peter settled, a steaming platter before him, Herman turned
and hurried through the night. This which he had happened on was a big
thing, too big for him alone. Two heads were better than one. He would
take advice.

Off the main avenue he fell into a smart trot. The color came to his
pale cheeks. A cold sweat broke out over him. He was short of wind from
many cigarettes. But at last he reached the house. It was near the park.
Although the season was early spring and there was more than a hint of
winter in the air, the Scenic Railway, he perceived, was already open
for business. Certainly the Americans were enterprising.

The double doors of the tall, gloomy house on the Road of Good Children
were already closed for the evening. As he stood panting, after he
had rung the bell, Herman Spier could look across to that remote and
unfashionable end of the great park where the people played on pleasant
evenings, and where even now, on the heels of winter, the Scenic Railway
made a pretense at summer.

The sight recalled that other vision of Marie and Peter Niburg, snugly
settled in a car, Marie a trifle pale and apprehensive. Herman swore
softly; and opened the doors.

Black Humbert was not in his bureau, behind the grating. With easy
familiarity Herman turned to a door beyond and entered. A dirty little
room, it was littered now with the preparations for a meal. On the
bare table were a loaf, a jug of beer, and a dish of fried veal. The
concierge was at the stove making gravy in a frying-pan--a huge man,
bearded and heavy of girth, yet stepping lightly, like a cat. A dark man
and called "the Black," he yet revealed, on full glance, eyes curiously
pale and flat.

No greeting passed between them. Humbert gave his visitor a quick
glance. Herman closed the door, and wiped out the band of his hat. The
concierge poured the gravy over the meat.

"I have discovered something, something," Herman said. "As to its value,
I know nothing, or its use to us."

"Let me judge that." But the concierge was unmoved, by Herman's
excitement. He dealt in sensations. His daily tools were men less clever
than himself, men who constantly made worthless discoveries. And it was
the dinner hour. His huge body was crying for food.

"It is a matter of a letter."

"Sit down, man, and tell it. Or do you wish me to draw the information,
like bad teeth?"

"A letter from the Palace," said Herman. And explained.

Black Humbe