er voice thrilled Curtis
to the core.

Almost as quickly, the man now running along the sidewalk knew that a
long chase had ended, or he fancied that it had ended, which is not
always the same thing.

"Here we are, Valletort!" he shouted. "Got 'em, by ----! You see
after Hermione! I'll attend to this d--d Frenchman!"

Curtis gently disengaged the clasp of a tiny hand on his arm, a clasp
which was eloquent of a woman's sore need and complete trust. He
stepped forward to meet the Count, a stoutly built, heavy man, who had
reckoned on closing with an undersized Frenchman. There was no time to
rectify mistakes. Curtis met his rival's onset with a beautiful
half-arm jab on the nose. Scientifically, it was perfect, since the
blow was delivered at the back of the Count's head with complete
disregard of intervening tissues, and its recipient went down like one
of those pins which succumbed so regularly to the ball bowled by a
colossal fist in the Broadway electric sign. The only difference was
that the pin fell noiselessly, whereas Count Vassilan roared like a
bull in anguish.

In the next instant Curtis, who, for a mild-mannered person, appeared
to possess a singularly close acquaintance with the ethics of a street
row, sprang at the automobile, pushed back a man who was getting out,
slammed the door, seized the speed levers, and bent them hopelessly
with a violent tug.

A swearing chauffeur fumbled in the seat, but was in no real hurry to
alight, because he had noted the Count's _debacle_, and Curtis ran to
the two cowering women.

"In with you!" he said cheerily, adding, with a grin at the driver:

"Fifty for you if we win clear. Now, be a sport!"

Of course, the driver of a taxi would be a sport. In five minutes he
pulled up somewhere in Madison Avenue, and, leaning back and twisting
his neck, bawled:

"Where to _now_, sir?"

CHAPTER IV

AN INTERLUDE

The appearance on the scene of the Earl of Valletort and Count Ladislas
Vassilan at a moment which, though undeniably critical, might be
described as either opportune or inopportune--the choice of an
adjective depending solely on the varying points of view of the one who
gave and the one who received that powerful thump on the nose--was due
to no feat of skill on the part of the engine-room staff of the
_Switzerland_, but to a judicious combination of wireless telegraphy,
money, and influence.

When it became evident, very early in the mornin