re due to wake up. Better
stick to widows and orphans."

At which jab Mr. Steele only chuckles easy. "What an engagingly frank
person you are!" says he. "As though rich widows weren't fair game! But
with the practice of philanthropy so liberally compensated I'm not
troubling them. Your friend, the late Mr. Gordon, has banished the wolf
from my door; for the immediate present, at least. I wonder if he
anticipated just how much I should enjoy his post-mortem munificence?"

And here J. Bayard gives a caressin' pat to his Grand Duke whiskers and
glances approvin' down at the patent leathers which finish off a costume
that's the last word in afternoon elegance. You've seen a pet cat
stretch himself luxurious after a full meal? Well, that's J. Bayard.
He'd hypothecated the canary. If he hadn't been such a dear friend of
mine too, I could have kicked him hearty.

"Say, you're a wonder, you are!" says I. "But I expect if your kind was
common, all the decent people would be demandin' to be jailed, out of
self-respect."

Another chuckle from J. Bayard. "Is that envy," says he, "or merely
epigram? But at least we will agree that our ethical standards vary. You
scorn mine; I find yours curiously entertaining. The best thing about
you is that you seem to bring me good luck."

"Don't trust that too far," says I. "I'm neither hump-backed, nor a live
Billiken. How soon are you going to start on proposition Number Two?"

"Ah!" says he, straightenin'. "That is the real business of the moment,
isn't it? As a matter of fact, I was just about to seek your valuable
advice on the subject."

"Shoot it, then," says I. "Who's the party?"

He explores his inside pockets, fishes out an envelop, and inspects it
deliberate. It's sealed; but he makes no move to open it. "My next
assignment in altruism," says he, holdin' it to the light. "Rich man,
poor man, beggar man, thief--I wonder?"

"Ah, come!" says I, handin' him a paper knife.

"But there's no need for haste," says J. Bayard. "Just consider, Shorty:
In this envelop is the name of some individual who was the victim of
injustice, large or small, at the hands of Pyramid Gordon, someone who
got in his way, perhaps years ago. Now I am to do something that will
offset that old injury. While the name remains unread, we have a bit of
mystery, an unknown adventure ahead of us, perhaps. And that, my dear
McCabe, is the salt of life."

"Say, you ought to take that lecture out on the Chautauq