CHAPTER IV

THE INTERPRETATION OF A DREAM

THE Captain left early and I retired at once to bed, but it was only to pass another troubled and uneasy night. Nor was it the open hostility of Baggerly, with his threats and his scheming, which so effectually banished sleep from my pillow. The problem agitating me was rather what attitude I proposed to adopt in my future dealings with my new-made friend the burglar.

The more I considered it, the more my spirit revolted at the thought of playing Sisera to his Jael. If only the jewels could be recovered some other way than by my having to drive the nail of betrayal into his temples!

With the first peep of dawn I was astir, and running to my window pulled aside the curtain and peered eagerly out at the sky and over the adjacent roofs. I did not attempt to repress a sigh of heartfelt satisfaction. The day was raw and blustery, the heavens overcast with

clouds, and even as I stood there a flurry of snow powdered the house-tops. Good! There could be no question of automobiling to-day; I was not yet called upon to make my decision.

But even with the sense of relief at my respite, came a sinking at the pit of my stomach as I recalled that there was another ordeal which had to be faced that day,—weather or no weather. For I had heroically promised Duncan the night before that I would not let another twenty-four hours pass over my head without confessing to Mr. and Mrs. Van Suyden the part I had borne in the robbery of their jewels; and as I did not wish to bring Elida into the matter without giving her some warning, had sent a special delivery letter to her the night before apprising her of my intentions and asking her to accompany me on my mission.

Familiar with her habits, I did not dare expect her much before noon, and so after breakfast I sat dawdling over my paper striving to put in the time.

The Onyx Court robbery still occupied the chief place of prominence in the news of the day, but a hasty glance over the matter presented assured me that there were no new developments to

require my attention, the account given being merely a "second-day" rehash of the facts.

As my eye strayed to another column, however, I did find something to excite my interest, in the report of a sensational scene which had taken place the evening before at one of the Broadway restaurants, and in which a so-called "prominent club man" and two women had been the participants.

The names were carefully suppressed, but I had small difficulty in identifying Sonnenthal as the man involved, and with equal ease recognised one of the women as Evelyn Arliss, the actress.

These two had been taking dinner together at the resort, it seemed, when suddenly there descended upon them, like a tornado in full action, a small, plainly gowned woman, unobtrusive enough in appearance, but, to judge from results, endowed with an electric force which might have put a forty-ton dynamo to shame.

She had commenced to berate the man in unmeasured terms, pouring out upon him a flood of vitriolic abuse; but before the other patrons of the place could fairly gather what it was all about, or any one could discover who the woman was, the man arose quickly, calmed her with a few

quiet words, and induced her to leave the place with him. They had then driven rapidly away together in a cab.

Indeed, so speedily was the incident over that it is doubtful if it would have excited more than passing comment, had not the deserted actress seen fit to improve the occasion by indulging in a violent fit of hysterics, which required the services of half a dozen physicians to subdue, and created a commotion all the way down the Rialto.

It was this which had drawn attention to the occurrence, for there had been a persistent rumour afloat that a split was imminent between Sonnenthal and the lady, some even asserting that he had demanded back the costly gifts he had poured out on her in such profusion,—and it was consequently inferred that this affair at the restaurant would mark a climax.

The one question which nobody seemed able to answer was, who the strange woman might be?

I confess I meditated a little on this point, too— not that I had any particular interest in such a vulgar disturbance; but merely because I had seen Sonnenthal and the beauty together at the Waldorf the afternoon before. I had observed no one there approaching the description of this

second woman, but then, as I reflected, that had been hours previous to the altercation and at quite another place.

I had not long to speculate upon the matter at any rate, for while I was idly forming conjectures in regard to it my solitude was broken in upon by a visit from Jerry Bender, the detective.

An insignificant little fellow with a shrewd, hickory-nut face and the alert perkiness of a bantam rooster, he was a veritable Hop-o'-mythumb, diminutive in every way, from his tiny hands and feet to his wisps of limbs and his twenty-eight-inch chest; yet somehow he inspired confidence.

He listened intently to my story, throwing in an occasional brisk comment or pointed question, but for the most part he chewed meditatively on a straw.

In his younger days, so he informed me, he had been a jockey, having drifted into his present vocation through his success in ferreting out and preventing a mammoth turf scandal, whereby, through a projected "ringer," it had been proposed to dump the betting public to the extent of thousands of dollars.

He showed this early association now and again