Warren was lost in thought. He stopped at the next corner.

"Listen, Rusty. You did good work. I wanted to have you find him, and
instead he came right to me. Now, we must end this whole thing
to-night." For an instant the Kentuckian was nonplused, and
instinctively turned to the old family servant with that curious trust
which the native Southerner instinctively places in the "family" negro.
"What shall I do now, Rusty?"

Rusty's usually big eyes narrowed to slits in which the whites were
hardly visible.

"Marse Warren, jest wait for dat man. He's here, you knows it, for your
life. Ef you cain't git him, _I can_. I got mah razor an' dat's a
better weepon dan any ole gun. You jest wait--an' let me do de rest."

Warren turned and started back toward the club.

"I'll be waiting at the Export Club, Rusty. If he hunts up my address
on Madison Avenue, the hall boy will send him there. If he wants to see
me, he already has my address--and everyone in Meadow Green knows the
club as my address. Now, you go up to the rooms I have taken in the
Belmont Hotel. The room number is 417--you just wait there until you
hear from me. What did you mean by 'supplies' in that telegram, Rusty?"

The darky chuckled.

"Lawsee, Marse Warren, I knows dat you is a reg'lar Noo Yorker by dis
time and don't carry de supplies of a gentlemen. I mean a .38-caliber!
Has you got one?"

Warren smiled for the first time since their surprising meeting.

"No, I guess I have become a victim of New York. The worst weapon I
have on me, Rusty, is a fountain pen--and I'm afraid Jim Marcum
couldn't read the ammunition!"

Rusty looked slyly about him. They were in a dark spot on Fifth Avenue,
the shop fronts deserted and not a pedestrian within a block. The darky
slipped his hand into his pocket, and surreptitiously handed his master
a heavy, portentous automatic which would have sent joy into the heart
of a Texas Ranger. There was a vibration of honest pride in his voice
as he explained:

"Dere, Marse Warren. I went widout po'k chops an' chicken all de way to
Noo York jest to lay in supplies while I was waitin' betwixt trains at
Lueyville! I 'lowed you all 'd be too wrapped up in yoh troubles ter
bother about dis, an' I recomembered dis here Noo York Sullivan Law
w'ich makes it a crime fer a decent citerzen ter carry a gun, so dat
the burglars kin work in peace. Take it, Marse Warren, an' plant every
seed in de right place!"

The tears came into t