tion
until his ear became attuned to the subdued tone in which it was
conducted. Thus, he had lost the key to its purport and had had to
improvise one.

But, even so, words had passed which had amply confirmed his suspicions;
so much so that, whilst he listened, all but breathlessly, he was
devising a scheme for capturing Sheard's visitor, single-handed, as he
left the house. Furthermore, he was devising a way out of the difficulty
in the event of the captive proving to be another than Severac Bablon.

The latter part of the duologue had puzzled him badly. The visitor
seemed to have ceased talking altogether, and Sheard's remarks had in
some inexplicable way drifted into quite a different channel. They
appeared to appertain to what had preceded them but remotely. The
relation seemed forced.

Still the visitor said nothing. Sheard continued to talk, and in upon
the mind of the detective shone a light of inspiration.

He detached the cunning little instrument, crawled across the lawn and
slunk out at the gate. Then he _ran_ around to the rear of the house. A
narrow lane there was, and into its black mouth he plunged without
hesitation.

The gate of the tradesmen's entrance was unbolted.

Alden was perfectly familiar with the nightly customs of the Sheard
establishment, and knew this to be irregular. He tilted his hat back and
scratched his head reflectively.

Then, from somewhere down the road, on the other side of the house, came
the sound of a curious whistle, an eerie minor whistle.

Like an Indian, Alden set off running. He rounded the corner as a car
whirled into view five hundred yards further along, and from the next
turning on the right. It stopped. One of its doors slammed.

It was off again. It had vanished.

Mr. Alden carefully extracted a cheroot from his case and lighted it
with loving care.

CHAPTER XIV

ZOE DREAMS

If you know the Astoria, you will remember that all around the
north-west side of the arcade-like structure, which opens on the Old
Supper Room, the Rajah Suite, the Louis Ballroom, the Edwardian
Banqueting Hall, and the Persian Lounge, are tiny cosy-corners. In one
of these you may smoke your secluded cigar, cigarette or pipe, wholly
aloof from the bustle, with its marked New Yorkist note, which
characterises the more public apartments of the giant _caravanserai_.

There is a nicely shaded light, if you wish to read, or to write, at
night. But you control this by a swi