Miss Carrington beckoned peremptorily to a waiter.
'A pint of extra dry,' she ordered, briefly; 'and give the check to Goldstein.'
'The sun was shinin' in the door,' went on the chronicler from Cranberry, 'and your ma was settin' right in it. I asked her if she hadn't better move back a little. 'William,' says she, 'when I get sot down and lookin' down the road, I can't bear to move. Never a day,' says she, 'but what I set here every minute that I can spare and watch over them palin's for Posie. She went away down that road in the night, for we seen her little shoe tracks in the dust, and somethin' tells me she'll come back that way ag'in when she's weary of the world and begins to think about her old mother.'
'When I was comin' away,' concluded 'Bill,' 'I pulled this off'n the bush by the front steps. I thought maybe I might see you in the city, and I knowed you'd like somethin' from the old home.'
He took from his coat pocket a rose - a drooping, yellow, velvet, odorous rose, that hung its bead in the foul atmosphere of that tainted rathskeller like a virgin bowing before the hot breath of the lions in a Roman arena.
Miss Carrington's penetrating but musical laugh rose above the orcbestra's rendering of 'Bluebells.'
'Oh, say!' she cried, with glee, 'ain't those poky places the limit? I just know that two hours at Cranberry Corners would give me the horrors now. Well, I'm awful glad to have seen you, Mr. Summers. Guess I'll bustle around to the hotel now and get my beauty sleep.'
She thrust the yellow rose into the bosom of her wonderful, dainty, silken garments, stood up and nodded imperiously at Herr Goldstein.
Her three companions and 'Bill Summers' at- tended her to her cab. When her flounces and streamers were all safely tucked inside she dazzled them with au revoirs from her shining eyes and teeth.
'Come around to the hotel and see me, Bill, before you leave the city,' she called as the glittering cab rolled away.
Highsmith, still in his make-up, went with Herr Goldstein to a cafe booth.
'Bright idea, eh? ' asked the smiling actor. 'Ought to land 'Sol Haytosser ' for me, don't you think? The little lady never once tumbled.'
'I didn't bear your conversation,' said Goldstein, but your make-up and acting was 0. K. Here's to your success. You'd better call on Miss Carrington early to-morrow and strike her for the part. I don't see how she can keep from being satisfied with your exhibition of ability.'
At 11.45 A. M. on the next day Highsmith, hand- some, dressed in the latest mode, confident, with a fuchsia in his button-bole, sent up his card to Miss Carrington in her select apartment hotel.
He was shown up and received by the actress's French maid.
'I am sorree,' said Mlle. Hortense, 'but I am to say this to all. It is with great regret. Mees Car- rington have cancelled all engagements on the stage and have returned to live in that how you call that town? Cranberry Cornaire!'
Half of this story can be found in the records of the Police Department; the other half belong behind the business counter of a newspaper office.
One afternoon two weeks after Millionaire Nor- cross was found in his apartment murdered by a bur- glar, the murderer, while strolling serenely down Broadway ran plump against Detective Barney Woods.
'Is that you, Johnny Kernan?' asked Woods, who had been near-sighted in public for five years.
'No less,' cried Kernan, heartily. 'If it isn't Barney Woods, late and early of old Saint Jo! You'll have to show me! What are you doing East? Do the green-goods circulars get out that far?' said Woods.
'I've been in New York some years, I'm on the city detective force.'
'Well, well!' said Kernan, breathing smiling joy and patting the detective's arm.
'Come into Muller's,' said Woods, 'and let's hunt a quiet table. I'd like to talk to you awhile.'
It lacked a few minutes to the hour of four. The tides of trade were not yet loosed, and they found a quiet corner of the cafe. Kernan, well dressed Slightly swaggering, self-confident, seated himself op- posite the little detective, with his pale, sandy mus- tache, squinting eyes and ready-made cheviot suit.
'What business are you in now?' asked Woods. 'You know you left Saint Jo a year before I did.'
'I'm selling shares in a copper mine,' said Ker- nan. 'I may establish an office here. Well, well! and so old Barney is a New York detective. You always had a turn that way. You were on the po- lice in Saint Jo after I left there, weren't you?'
'Six months,' said Woods. 'And now there's one more question, Johnny. I've followed your record pretty close ever since you did that hotel job in Sara- toga, and I never knew you to use your gun before. Why did you kill Norcross?'
Kernan stared for a few moments with concen- trated attention at the slice of lemon in his high-ball; and then be looked at the detective with a sudden, crooked, brilliant smile.
'How did you guess it, Barney? ' he asked, ad- miringly. 'I swear I thought the job was as clean and as smooth as a peeled onion. Did I leave a string hanging out anywhere? '
Woods laid upon the table a small gold pencil in- tended for a watch-charm.
'It's the one I gave you the last Christmas we were in Saint Jo. I've got your shaving mug yet. I found this under a corner of the rug in Norcross's room. I warn you to be careful what you say. I've got it put on to you, Johnny. We were old friends once, but I must do my duty. You'll have to go to the chair for Norcross.' Kernan laughed.
'My luck stays with me,' said be. 'Who'd have thought old Barney was on my trail!' He slipped one hand inside his coat. In an instant Woods had a revolver against his side.
'Put it away,' said Kernan, wrinkling his nose. 'I'm only investigating. Aha! It takes nine tailors to make a
