ay and tinkling glasses, was trying not to
smile.

"I gave Jimmie your ten dollars," said Van Vorst, "and made it twenty,
and he has gone home. You will be glad to hear that he begged me to
spare your life, and that your sentence has been commuted to twenty
years in a fortress. I drink to your good fortune."

"No!" protested Captain McCoy, "We will drink to Jimmie!"

When Captain McCoy had driven away, and his own car and the golf clubs
had again been brought to the steps, Judge Van Vorst once more attempted
to depart; but he was again delayed.

Other visitors were arriving.

Up the driveway a touring-car approached, and though it limped on a flat
tire, it approached at reckless speed. The two men in the front seat
were white with dust; their faces, masked by automobile glasses, were
indistinguishable. As though preparing for an immediate exit, the car
swung in a circle until its nose pointed down the driveway up which it
had just come. Raising his silk mask the one beside the driver shouted
at Judge Van Vorst. His throat was parched, his voice was hoarse and hot
with anger.

"A gray touring-car," he shouted. "It stopped here. We saw it from that
hill. Then the damn tire burst, and we lost our way. Where did he go?"

"Who?" demanded Van Vorst, stiffly, "Captain McCoy?"

The man exploded with an oath. The driver with a shove of his elbow,
silenced him.

"Yes, Captain McCoy," assented the driver eagerly. "Which way did he
go?"

"To New York," said Van Vorst.

The driver shrieked at his companion.

"Then, he's doubled back," he cried. "He's gone to New Haven." He
stooped and threw in the clutch. The car lurched forward.

A cold terror swept young Van Vorst.

"What do you want with him?" he called "Who are you?"

Over one shoulder the masked face glared at him. Above the roar of the
car the words of the driver were flung back. "We're Secret Service from
Washington," he shouted. "He's from their embassy. He's a German spy!"

Leaping and throbbing at sixty miles an hour, the car vanished in a
curtain of white, whirling dust.

Chapter 9. THE CARD-SHARP

I had looked forward to spending Christmas with some people in Suffolk,
and every one in London assured me that at their house there would be
the kind of a Christmas house party you hear about but see only in the
illustrated Christmas numbers. They promised mistletoe, snapdragon, and
Sir Roger de Coverley. On Christmas morning we would walk to church,