s a tough joint."

But Wharton motioned him back; and when again he turned to look the man
still stood where they had parted.

Two minutes later an empty taxi-cab came swiftly toward him and, as it
passed, the driver lifted his hand from the wheel and with his thumb
motioned behind him.

"That's one of the men," said Nolan, "that started with Mr. Rumson and
Hewitt from Delmonico's."

Wharton nodded; and, now assured that in their plan there had been no
hitch, smiled with satisfaction. A moment later, when ahead of them on
the asphalt road Nolan pointed out a spot of yellow, he recognized the
signal and knew that within call were friends.

The yellow ciagarette-box lay directly in front of a long wooden
building of two stories. It was linked to the road by a curving driveway
marked on either side by whitewashed stones. On verandas enclosed in
glass Wharton saw white-covered tables under red candle-shades and,
protruding from one end of the house and hung with electric lights in
paper lanterns, a pavilion for dancing. In the rear of the house stood
sheds and a thick tangle of trees on which the autumn leaves showed
yellow. Painted fingers and arrows pointing, and an electric sign,
proclaimed to all who passed that this was Kessler's. In spite of its
reputation, the house wore the aspect of the commonplace. In evidence
nothing flaunted, nothing threatened. From a dozen other inns along the
Pelham Parkway and the Boston Post Road it was in no way to be
distinguished.

As directed in the note, Wharton left the car in the road. "For five
minutes stay where you are," he ordered Nolan; "then go to the bar and
get a drink. Don't talk to any one or they'll think you're trying to get
information. Work around to the back of the house. Stand where I can see
you from the window. I may want you to carry a message to Mr. Rumson."

On foot Wharton walked up the curving driveway, and if from the house
his approach was spied upon, there was no evidence. In the second story
the blinds were drawn and on the first floor the verandas were empty.
Nor, not even after he had mounted to the veranda and stepped inside the
house, was there any sign that his visit was expected. He stood in a
hall, and in front of him rose a broad flight of stairs that he guessed
led to the private supper-rooms. On his left was the restaurant.

Swept and garnished after the revels of the night previous, and as
though resting in preparation for those to come,