s of the Flaxman Building Hotel, out of which
Farrell and Foe had walked, at fifteen hours' interval, and walked
straight into vacancy.

In short, Jimmy and I sailed for home, a fortnight later, utterly
beaten.

Now I'm telling the story in my own way. A novelist, who knew how to
work it, would (I'm pretty sure) keep up the mystery just about here.
But I'm going to put in what happened, though I didn't hear about it
until two years later.

What happened was that, one evening, Jack drove Farrell too far, and
over a trifle. Without knowing it, too, he had been teaching Farrell
to learn cunning. They were back in New York and (it seems almost
too silly to repeat) seated in a restaurant, ordering dinner.
Jack held the _carte du jour_: the waiter was at his elbow; Farrell
sat opposite, waiting. For some twenty-four hours--that is, since
their return to New York City--Jack had chosen to be talkative.
Farrell was even encouraged to hope that he had broken the spell of
his hatred, and that the next boat for England might carry them home
in company and forgiving. Just then the devil put it into Jack to
resume his torture. He laid down the card and sat silent, the waiter
still at his elbow. "Well, what shall it be?" asked Farrell, a
trifle faintly. Jack, like the Tar-Baby, kept on saying nothing.
The waiter looked about him, and fetched back his attention politely.
"What shall it be?" Farrell repeated. Then, as Jack stared quietly
at the table, not answering, "Go and attend to the next table," said
he to the man. "You can come back in three minutes." The waiter
went. "Now," said Farrell, laying down the napkin he had unfolded,
"are you going to speak?"

Foe picked up the card again and studied it.

"Yes or no, damn you?" demanded Farrell. "Here and now I'll have an
end to this monkeying--Yes, or no?" he cried explosively.

Foe pointed a finger at the chair from which Farrell had sprung up.

"I won't!" protested Farrell, and wrenched himself away. "Here's the
end of it, and I'm shut of you!"

He dragged himself to the door. Foe, still studying the card through
his glasses, did not even trouble to throw a glance after him.
Once in the street, Farrell felt his chain broken: he hailed a cab,
and was driven off to his hotel. There he packed, paid his bill, and
vanished with his grip into the night, leaving his portmanteau behind
with a word that he would return for it.

Foe had taught him cunning.

He bet