d. Carl slowly lighted a cigarette. At the end of the
bridge a straggler struck a match and flung it lightly in the river,
the disc of his cigar a fire-point in the shadows.

The car rolled on again and halted.

A stocky young man behind the fire-point emerged from the darkness and
climbed briskly into the tonneau.

"Hello, Hunch," said Carl.

"'Lo!" said Hunch and stared intently at the robe.

"Take a look at him," invited Carl carelessly. "It's not often you
have an opportunity of riding with one of his brand. He's in the
_Almanach de Gotha_."

"T'ell yuh say!" said Hunch largely, though the term had conveyed no
impression whatever to his democratic mind.

Cautiously raising the robe Hunch Dorrigan stared with interest at the
prisoner he was inconspicuously to assist into the empty town house of
the Westfalls.

CHAPTER XI

IN THE CAMP OF THE GYPSY LADY

From a garish dream of startling unpleasantness, Philip Poynter stirred
and opened his eyes.

"Well, now," he mused uncomfortably, "this is more like it! This is
the sort of dream to have! I wonder I never had sufficient wit to
carve out one like this before. Birds and trees and wind fussing
pleasantly around a fellow's bed--and by George! those birds are making
coffee!"

There was a cheerful sound of flapping canvas and vanishing glimpses of
a woodland shot with sun-gold, of a camp fire and a pair of dogs
romping boisterously. Moreover, though his bed was barely an inch from
the ground to which it was staked over a couple of poles, it was
exceedingly springy and comfortable. Not yet thoroughly awake, Philip
put out an exploring hand.

"Flexible willow shoots!" said he drowsily, "and a rush mat! Oberon
had nothing on me. Hello!" A dog romped joyfully through the flapping
canvas and barked. Philip's dream boat docked with a painful thud of
memory. Wincing painfully he sat up.

"Easy, old top!" he advised ruefully, as the dog bounded against him.
"It would seem that we're an invalid with an infernal bump on the back
of our head and a bandaged shoulder." He peered curiously through the
tent flap and whistled softly. "By George, Nero," he added under his
breath, "we're in the camp of my beautiful gypsy lady!"

There was a bucket of water by the tent flap. Philip painfully made a
meager toilet, glanced doubtfully at the coarse cotton garment which by
one of the mystifying events of the previous night had replaced the
silk shirt he