e. "My own, ma'am, of which I am the head." There was no
levity in tone or expression.

By now every window in the club framed a dozen or more faces.

"I will take this Canova, I believe," she finally decided, opening her
purse and producing the necessary silver. "Of course, it is quite
impossible to send this?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sending it would eat up all the profits." But, with
ill-concealed eagerness, "If you will leave your address I can send as
many as you like."

"I will do that."

Incredible as it seemed, neither face lost its repose; he dared not
smile, and the young woman did not care to. There was something
familiar to his memory in the oval face, but this was no time for a
diligent search.

"Hey, miss," yelled one of the newsboys, "you're t'rowin' your money
away. He's a fake; he ain't no statoo seller. He's doing it for a
joke!"

Fitzgerald lost a little color, that was all. But his customer ignored
the imputation. She took out a card and laid it on the tray, and
without further ado went serenely on her way. The policeman stepped
toward her as if to speak, but she turned her delicate head aside. The
crowd engulfed her presently, and Fitzgerald picked up the card. There
was neither name nor definite address on it. It was a message, hastily
written; and it sent a thrill of delight and speculation to his
impressionable heart. Still carrying the tray before him he hastened
over to the club, where there was something of an ovation. Instead of
a dinner for three it became one for a dozen, and Fitzgerald passed the
statuettes round as souvenirs of the most unique bet of the year.
There were lively times. Toward midnight, as Fitzgerald was going out
of the coat room, Cathewe spoke to him.

"What was her name, Jack?"

"Hanged if I know."

"She dropped a card on your tray."

Fitzgerald scrubbed his chin. "There wasn't any name on it. There was
an address and something more. Now, wait a moment, Arthur; this is no
ordinary affair. I would not show it to any one else. Here, read it
yourself."

"Come to the house at the top of the hill, in Dalton, to-morrow night
at eight o'clock. But do not come if you lack courage."

That was all. Cathewe ran a finger, comb-fashion, through his
mustache. He almost smiled.

"Where the deuce _is_ Dalton?" Fitzgerald inquired.

"It is a little village on the New Jersey coast; not more than forty
houses, post-office, hotel, and general store; perha