by day you can slip over to the store,
by night use the new address. Get home now. Go over the ferry."
He filled the boy's hand with loose silver. "I'll stay here. Speak
to no one. Get out quickly by the side door."

Emil Einstein was safely across the Fulton Ferry before he had
realized the startling change in Fritz Braun's appearance. The flowing
golden beard, the blue glasses, the padded clothes of middle-age
cut were gone. Fritz Braun, lithe, sharp-faced, with piercing eyes,
a dashing cavalry mustache, and dapper Wall Street tailoring, was
twenty years younger, and another man.

His diamond jewels, rakish air and "loose fish" manner bespoke the
flush book-maker or the flashy "boss."

"Here's for a night on the Bowery," gleefully cried Einstein,
counting his Judas gains, while he tried to forget Fritz Braun's
lightning change.

That dapper gentleman, stepping into a closet, passed swiftly
through the door from the Valkyrie into 192 Layte Street. His
hidden pool-room, gambling den and exchange for soul and body was
temporarily forgotten by "Mr. August Meyer," owner of the peerless
"Valkyrie Saloon."

"I'll get a carriage and drive over to Irma," he growled. "She must
never cross the river again. We must lead him over here; but how?
Perhaps the pretty devil can help me. I must throw Wade off the
track. Irma can fool this young greenhorn. The job must be done
over there. For a fortune, for his life or mine; and he must be
teased along till the July holidays."

Then Mr. August Meyer of Brooklyn proceeded to leisurely array
himself as a clubman of fashion.

CHAPTER V.

BREAKERS AHEAD! CHECKMATE! MR. ARTHUR FERRIS WORKS IN THE DARK.

Randall Clayton was an enigma in his altered personal bearing
to his old confreres when he entered the manager's office at his
summons on a balmy afternoon of the dying days of June.

The two months since Jack Witherspoon's departure had changed the
frank young fellow into a taciturn man of feline secretiveness. The
discovery of Worthington's treachery, the knowledge of the dogging
spies at his heels, had been a suddenly transforming influence. He
now ardently burned for the return of his one confidant, for the
annual election was but a few days distant.

The ripening summer was coming on fast. On Fifth Avenue the delicate,
haughty-faced young Princesses of Mammon now bore the June blush
roses in their slender pitiless hands. The annual hegira pleasureward
was be