enture at last. And he began to
entertain a little more respect for those writers of romance who have
so persistently attempted to convince an incredulous world that
adventures are to be had anywhere and at any time for the mere effort
entailed in seeking them.

In his case, however, he had not sought adventure. It had been thrust
upon him by cable.

And now the drop of Irish in him gratefully responded. He was much
obliged to Fate for his evening's entertainment; he modestly ventured
to hope for favours to come. And, considering the coolly veiled
threats of this young woman whom he had treated with scant ceremony,
he had some reason to expect a sequel to the night's adventure.

"She," he thought to himself, "had nothing on Godiva--except a piano
cover!"

Recollection of the absurd situation incited his reprehensible
merriment to the point of unrestrained laughter; and he clasped his
knees and rocked to and fro, where he sat on his suitcase, all alone
under the stars.

The midnight express was usually from five to forty minutes late at
Orangeville; but from there east it made up time on the down grade to
Albany.

And now, as he sat watching, far away along the riverside a star came
gliding into view around an unseen curve--the headlight of a distant
locomotive.

A few moments later he was in his drawing-room, seated on the edge of
the couch, his door locked, the shade over the window looking on the
corridor drawn down as far as it would go; and the train rushing
through the starry night on the down grade toward Albany.

He could not screen the corridor window entirely; the shade seemed to
be too short; but it was late, the corridor dark, all the curtains in
the car closed tightly over the berths, and his privacy was not likely
to be disturbed. And when the conductor had taken both tickets and the
porter had brought him a bottle of mineral water and gone away, he
settled down with great content.

Neeland was in excellent humour. He had not the slightest inclination
to sleep. He sat on the side of his bed, smoking, the olive-wood box
lying open beside him, and its curious contents revealed.

But now, as he carefully examined the papers, photographs, and
drawings, he began to take the affair a little more seriously. And the
possibility of further trouble raised his already high spirits and
caused that little drop of Irish blood to sing agreeably in his
veins.

Dipping into Herr Wilner's diary added a fillip