l we have passed the seventh stage. If
you don't--if either you or Matt deliberately quarrel with me, or
marry--then, as I've dinned into your ears a thousand times, the
Compact will be broken, and--not only that, but some frightful
catastrophe will wipe us off. Now will you do what I ask? Come--a
dinner with me every night this week, at the Piccadilly--champagne--and
no vegetables!"

"All right," Curtis said sulkily, "for the good of the cause I suppose
I must, but I hate spying."

Two nights later in a private room at the Piccadilly, after dinner,
when the champagne and liqueurs had got into Curtis's head and he was
leaning back in his chair, smiling and silly, Hamar suddenly said,
"Ed! you remember what I told you--about watching Kelson. Have you
discovered anything?"

"Shupposing I have," Curtis replied, "shupposing I haven't--whatch
then?"

"Ah, but I know you have," Hamar said, striving to hide his eagerness.
"Come, tell me, another liqueur--I'll square it with the Unknown--it
won't hurt you!"

"Won't it!" Curtis gurgled. "Wont'ch it! I'll tell you everything.
No--nothingsh, I mean."

But Hamar when once he had smelt a rat, was not easily put off. He
coaxed, and coaxed, and eventually succeeded.

"Leonsh!" Curtis said, with a sudden burst of drunken confidence.
"Leonsh! it's worse than either you or I shuspected. I caught them
alone this morning--in my offish."

"Them! Rosenberg and Matt!"

"Yesh, of course, shilly! I told Matt I was going out. He thought I
had--so into the room I came--quite unshuspected, unobsherved. She was
sitting on hish knees, cuddling--and he was putting a ring on her
finger. 'Four more days, darling,' shays he, 'and we are married!
Jerushalem! Damn the Compact and damnsh Hamar!' 'Hamar doesn't
shuspect, does he?' Rosenberg shays. 'Not a bit--not in the
slightest,' old Matt replieshes, 'why it is I who amsh brave now.'
Then he kisshes her, and fearing they would detect my presence, I
slipsh quietly out."

"Will you swear this is true?" Leon said, his voice trembling with
excitement.

"I'll schwear it!" Curtis answered, "but you look crossh. Whatsh the
matter, Leon? _God! What's the matter!_"

An hour later, as Kelson was rising from his chair in front of the
fire to gaze, for the hundredth time that evening, into the eyes of
Lilian Rosenberg's portrait on the mantelshelf, the door of his room
flew open and in staggered Curtis--white, wet and bloated.

"Great heavens!" Ke