he eyes of the Kentuckian.

"Rusty, you're a jewel!"

"Yassir, in a ebony settin'! But, now, please git back to dat club
place, an' wait fer Jim Marcum. Dat man's mind was on his bizness when
I seen him in de smokin' cyar, an' he ain't thinkin' of nothin' else!"

They strolled down toward the club again. Warren gave a few parting
directions and handed Rusty a roll of bills for emergency.

"Remember, Rusty, when you hear from me by any message at all, you're
to come at once,--I'll just mention my first name. I'm registered at
the Belmont as John Kelly of New Orleans--I couldn't hide my Southern
accent. Tell them you're my valet, and show the key--I can trust you to
get up to the room. If I call for you, pay the bill from that change,
and don't let the grass grow under those number twelves!"

Rusty smirked happily.

"Hallelujah, Marse Warren, you'se jokin' agin--de fightin' blood of de
Jarvises is bilin'--I knows de signs. Why, Marse Warren, I recollects
yoh father when...."

But his master's face changed.

"Not now, Rusty. I'm thinking too much about my father. No more talk
for either of us. Just action."

He turned into the side street toward the Export Club. Rusty--fresh
from Kentucky psychology--doffed his cap and disappeared as Warren
entered the Grecian portal.

Inside the clubhouse he found a letter awaiting him. It was scrawled in
the bold, ungrammared style which might have been expected. He read it
standing tensely by the doorway, as dozens of men walked in and out,
little dreaming of the tragedy attached to that casual fragment of
white note-paper. It was written on the stationery of the Hotel
Manhattan--diagonally across the street from the hostelry where Warren
had inadvertently registered for his brief stay in the city.

He read the words again and again.

"DEAR JARVIS; export Club, new York.

am visiting in New York and would like to see you and call off our
kwarrel youre fathers death was misunderstandin and were last of
our families will be at Above hotel all evenin and tomorrow come
Around when you get chance and shake hands i Will prove I aint
meant no harm.

Friend JIM MARCUM."

The Kentuckian crumpled the note in his hand, and then walked toward
the fireplace of the grill. It had been weeks since any logs had been
burned there, but the flakes of soot still clung to the stone casement.
Warren struck a match, and a curious smile illumined his face as he
ig