s in Morocco, filibustered in South America and
handled a machine-gun for revolutionary forces in Mexico. Surely, he
thought grimly, if anyone could fill the bill for a soldier of fortune
it was himself.

222 Reuter Place proved to be a large residence in a shabby
neighborhood. On the sidewalk, a queue of men was being held in line
by a burly cop. The door of the house opened, and an individual,
broad-shouldered and with flaming red hair, looked over the crowd.
Instantly Justus Miles let out a yell, "Rusty! By God, Rusty!" and
waved his hands.

"Hey, feller, who do you think you're shovin'?" growled a hard-looking
fellow at the head of the line, but Justus Miles paid no attention to
him. The man in the doorway also let out an excited yell.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Kid! Hey, Officer, let that fellow
through: I want to speak to him."

* * * * *

With the door shut on the blasphemous mob, the two men wrung each
other's hands. Ex-Sergeant Harry Ward, known to his intimates as
"Rusty," led Justus Miles into a large office and shoved him into a
chair.

"I didn't know you were in New York, kid. The last I saw of you was
when we quit Sandino."

"And I never suspected that 222 Reuter Place would be you, Rusty.
What's the lay, old man, and is there any chance to connect?"

"You bet your life there's a chance. Three hundred a month and found.
But the boss has the final say-so, though I'm sure he'll take you on
my recommendation."

He opened a door, led Justus Miles through an inner room, knocked at a
far door and ushered him into the presence of a man who sat behind a
roll-topped desk. There was something odd about this old man, and
after a moment's inspection Justus Miles saw what it was. He was
evidently a cripple, propped up in a strange wheelchair. He had an
abnormally large and hairless head, and his body was muffled to the
throat in a voluminous cloak, the folds of which fell over and
enveloped most of the wheelchair itself. The face of this old
gentleman--though the features were finely molded--was swarthy: its
color was almost that of a negro--or an Egyptian. He regarded the two
men with large and peculiarly colored eyes--eyes that probed them
sharply.

"Well, Ward, what is it?"

"The man you advertised for, Mr. Solino."

* * * * *

Solino regarded Justus Miles critically.

"You have been a soldier of fortune?" he asked. He spoke English