sitting in a soft wreath of cigarette smoke when his landlady
came in with the morning paper.

"Thought you might like to see the Times, Mr. Gilbert," she said. "I
knew you'd been too sick to go out and buy one. I see the President's
going to sail on Wednesday."

Aubrey threaded his way through the news with the practiced eye of one
who knows what interests him. Then, by force of habit, he carefully
scanned the advertising pages. A notice in the HELP WANTED columns
leaped out at him.

WANTED--For temporary employment at Hotel Octagon, 3 chefs, 5
experienced cooks, 20 waiters. Apply chef's office, 11 P.M. Tuesday.

"Hum," he thought. "I suppose, to take the place of those fellows who
are going to sail on the George Washington to cook for Mr. Wilson.
That's a grand ad for the Octagon, having their kitchen staff chosen
for the President's trip. Gee, I wonder why they don't play that up in
some real space? Maybe I can place some copy for them along that line."

An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he went over to the chair where
he had thrown his overcoat the night before. From the pocket he took
out the cover of Carlyle's Cromwell, and looked at it carefully.

"I wonder what the jinx is on this book?" he thought. "It's a queer
thing the way that fellow trailed me last night--then my finding this
in the drug store, and getting that crack on the bean. I wonder if
that neighbourhood is a safe place for a girl to work in?"

He paced up and down the room, forgetting the pain in his head.

"Maybe I ought to tip the police off about this business," he thought.
"It looks wrong to me. But I have a hankering to work the thing out on
my own. I'd have a wonderful stand-in with old man Chapman if I saved
that girl from anything. . . . I've heard of gangs of kidnappers. . . .
No, I don't like the looks of things a little bit. I think that
bookseller is half cracked, anyway. He doesn't believe in advertising!
The idea of Chapman trusting his daughter in a place like that----"

The thought of playing knight errant to something more personal and
romantic than an advertising account was irresistible. "I'll slip over
to Brooklyn as soon as it gets dark this evening," he said to himself.
"I ought to be able to get a room somewhere along that street, where I
can watch that bookshop without being seen, and find out what's
haunting it. I've got that old .22 popgun of mine that I used to use
up at camp. I'll take