ed conviction. Then Cleggett laughed, cocked his hat on
the other side of his head and went out into the corridor whistling.
Whistling, and, since faults as well as virtues must be told,
swaggering just a little.

When the managing editor had heard the elevator come up, pause, and go
down again, he went out of his room and said to the city editor:

"Mr. Herbert, don't ever let that man Cleggett into this office again.
He is off--off mentally. He's a dangerous man. He's a homicidal
maniac. More'n likely he's been a quiet, steady drinker for years, and
now it's begun to show on him."

But nothing was further from Cleggett than the wish ever to go into the
Enterprise office again. As he left the elevator on the ground floor
he stabbed the astonished elevator boy under the left arm with his cane
as a bayonet, cut him harmlessly over the head with his cane as a
saber, tossed him a dollar, and left the building humming:

"Oh, the Beau Sabreur of the Grande Armee Was the Captain Tarjeanterre!"

It is thus, with a single twitch of her playful fingers, that Fate
will sometimes pluck from a man the mask that has obscured his real
identity for many years. It is thus that Destiny will suddenly draw a
bright blade from a rusty scabbard!

CHAPTER II

THE ROOM OF ILLUSION

That part of Brooklyn in which Cleggett lived overlooks a wide sweep of
water where the East River merges with New York Bay. From his windows
he could gaze out upon the bustling harbor craft and see the ships
going forth to the great mysterious sea.

He walked home across the Brooklyn Bridge, and as he walked he still
hummed tunes. Occasionally, still with the rapt and fatal manner which
had daunted the managing editor, he would pause and flex his wrist, and
then suddenly deliver a ferocious thrust with his walking-stick.

The fifth of these lunges had an unexpected result. Cleggett directed
it toward the door of an unpainted toolhouse, a temporary structure
near one of the immense stone pillars from which the bridge is swung.
But, as he lunged, the toolhouse door opened, and a policeman, who was
coming out wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, received a jab in
the pit of a somewhat protuberant stomach.

The officer grunted and stepped backward; then he came on, raising his
night-stick.

"Why, it's--it's McCarthy!" exclaimed Cleggett, who had also sprung
back, as the light fell on the other's face.

"Mr. Cleggett, by the powers!" said