I might
have hesitated, indeed, had it not been for the Blighted Fraus. Their
talk was of dinner and of the digestive process; they were critics of
digestion. They each of them sat so complacently through the
evening--solid and stolid, stodgy and podgy, stuffed comatose images,
knitting white woollen shawls, to throw over their capacious shoulders
at _table d'hote_--and they purred with such content in their
middle-aged rotundity that I made up my mind I must take warning
betimes, and avoid their temptations to adipose deposit. I prefer to
grow upwards; the Frau grows sideways. Better get my throat cut by an
American desperado, in my pursuit of romance, than settle down on a rock
like a placid fat oyster. I am not by nature sessile.

Adventures are to the adventurous. They abound on every side; but only
the chosen few have the courage to embrace them. And they will not come
to you: you must go out to seek them. Then they meet you half-way, and
rush into your arms, for they know their true lovers. There were eight
Blighted Fraus at the Home for Lost Ideals, and I could tell by simple
inspection that they had not had an average of half an adventure per
lifetime between them. They sat and knitted still, like Awful Examples.

If I had declined to meet Mr. Hitchcock at Fraunheim, I know not what
changes it might have induced in my life. I might now be knitting. But I
went boldly forth, on a voyage of exploration, prepared to accept aught
that fate held in store for me.

As Mr. Hitchcock had assured me there was money in his offer, I felt
justified in speculating. I expended another three marks on the hire of
a bicycle, though I ran the risk thereby of going perhaps without
Monday's dinner. That showed my vocation. The Blighted Fraus, I felt
sure, would have clung to their dinner at all hazards.

When I arrived at Fraunheim, I found my alert American punctually there
before me. He raised his crush hat with awkward politeness. I could see
he was little accustomed to ladies' society. Then he pointed to a close
cab in which he had reached the village.

'I've got it inside,' he whispered, in a confidential tone. 'I couldn't
let 'em ketch sight of it. You see, there's dollars in it.'

'What have you got inside?' I asked, suspiciously, drawing back. I don't
know why, but the word 'it' somehow suggested a corpse. I began to grow
frightened.

'Why, the wheel, of course,' he answered. 'Ain't you come here to ride
it?'

'Oh,