l of his pipe, the smile had left his lips.

* * * * *

An uneventful week passed. The Veiled Lady made her daily excursions in
the big high-powered car, pursued her now well-known domestic habits,
retained her offensive aloofness, played games with the astounding
Snooks, suffered no ill effects whatsoever from the inimical glares of
the natives; and above all, she continued to set the fashions in
Tinkletown.

[Illustration: _The veiled lady made her daily excursions in the big
high-powered car_]

Mr. Crow stalked the streets early and late. He lurked behind the
corners of buildings; he peered sharply from the off-side of telephone
poles as the big limousine swept haughtily by. He patrolled the Nixon
neighbourhood by day and haunted it by night. On occasion he might have
been observed in the act of scrutinizing the tracks of the automobile
over recently sprinkled streets.

One evening, just after dusk,--after a sharp encounter with Harry
Squires, who bluntly accused him of loafing on the job,--he sauntered
past the Nixon cottage. His soul was full of bitterness. He was baffled.
Harry Squires was right; he had accomplished nothing--and what was
worse, he wasn't likely to accomplish anything. He sauntered back,
casting furtive glances into the spacious front-yard, and concluded to
ease his restless legs by leaning against a tree and crossing them in an
attitude of profound nonchalance. The tree happened to be almost
directly in front of the Nixon gate. Not to seem actually employed in
shadowing the house, he decided to pose with his back to the premises,
facing down the street, twisting his whiskers in a most pensive manner.

Suddenly a low, musical voice said:

"Good evening!"

Mr. Crow looked up into the thick foliage of the elm, then to the right
and left, and finally in the direction of the cottage, out of the corner
of his eye, after a sudden twist of the neck that caused him to wonder
whether he had sprained it.

The Veiled Lady was standing at the gate. In the gathering darkness her
figure seemed abnormally tall.

The Marshal hastily faced about and stared hard at the mystery.

"Evening," he said, somewhat uncertainly. Then he lifted his hat a
couple of inches from his head and replaced it at an entirely new angle,
pulling the rim down so far over the left eye that the right eye alone
was visible. This shift of the hat instantly transformed him into a
figure of speech; h