whispered Forsythe--"on four different nights I've
recognized men I know are on the staff of the Times, and on the other
nights men I don't know may have been here. But after all that proves
nothing, for this place is a resort of newspaper writers and
editors--and the Times men's being here may have been only a
coincidence."

"And Hertz?" asked Sam--"what does he do?"

The Englishman exclaimed with irritation.

"Just what you see him doing now!" he protested. "He eats his dinner!
Look at him!" he commanded. "Of all in the room he's the least
concerned."

Sam looked and saw the suspected Adolf Hertz dangling a mass of
macaroni on the end of his fork. Sam watched him until it disappeared.

"Maybe that's a signal!" suggested Sam. "Maybe everything he does is
part of a cipher code! He gives the signals and the Times men read them
and write them down."

"A man would have a fine chance to write anything down in this room!"
said Forsythe.

"But maybe," persisted Sam, "when he makes those strange movements with
his lips he is talking to a confederate who can read the lip language.
The confederate writes it down at the office and--"

"Fantastic and extremely improbable!" commented Forsythe. "But,
nevertheless, the fact remains, the fellow does communicate with some
one from the Times; and the police are positive he does it here and
that he is doing it now!"

The problem that so greatly disturbed his friend would have more deeply
interested Sam had the solving of his own trouble been less imperative.
That alone filled his mind. And when the coffee was served and the
cigars lit, without beating about the bush Sam asked Forsythe bluntly
if on his paper a rising and impecunious genius could find a place.
With even less beating about the bush Forsythe assured him he could
not. The answer was final, and the disappointment was so keen that Sam
soon begged his friend to excuse him, paid his bill, and rose to depart.

"Better wait!" urged Forsythe. "You'll find nothing so good out at a
music-hall. This is Houdini getting out of his handcuffs before an
audience entirely composed of policemen."

Sam shook his head gloomily.

"I have a few handcuffs of my own to get rid of," he said, "and it
makes me poor company."

He bade his friend good night and, picking his way among the tables,
moved toward the pillar on which the waiter had hung his hat. The
pillar was the one beside which Hertz was sitting, and as Sam
ap