III. MR. JONES OF PEORIA

XXIX. ACCORDING TO THE MORNING PAPERS

XXX. WHAT CLO DID WITH A KNIFE

XXXI. THE NINE DAYS

XXXII. "STEPHEN'S DEAD!"

XXXIII. THE PATCH ON THE PILLOW

XXXIV. TRAPPED

XXXV. THE TIME LIMIT OF HOPE

XXXVI. "WE DO THINGS QUICKLY OVER HERE"

XXXVII. THE TELEGRAM

XXXVIII. WHO IS STEPHEN?

XXXIX. ON THE ROAD TO NEWPORT

THE LION'S MOUSE

I

THE LION

Roger Sands had steel-gray eyes, a straight black line of brows drawn
low and nearly meeting above them, thick black hair lightly powdered
with silver at the temples, and a clean-shaven, aggressive chin. He had
the air of being hard as nails. Most people, including women, thought
him hard as nails. He thought it of himself, and gloried in his armour,
never more than on a certain September day, when resting in the Santa Fe
Limited, tearing back to New York after a giant's tussle in California.
But--it was hot weather, and he had left the stateroom door open.
Everything that followed came--from this.

Suddenly he became conscious of a perfume, and saw a woman hovering,
rather than standing, at the door. At his look she started away, then
stopped.

"Oh, do help me!" she said.

She was young and very beautiful. He couldn't stare quite as coldly as
he ought.

"What can I do for you?" was the question he asked.

He had hardly opened his mouth before she flashed into the stateroom and
shut the door.

"There's a man.... I'm afraid!"

Though she was young and girlish, and spoke impulsively, there was
something oddly regal about her. Princesses and girl-queens ought to be
of her type; tall and very slim, with gracious, sloping shoulders and a
long throat, the chin slightly lifted: pale, with great appealing violet
eyes under haughty brows, and quantities of yellow-brown hair dressed in
some sort of Madonna style.

"You needn't be afraid," he said. "Men aren't allowed to insult ladies
in trains."

"This man hasn't insulted me in an ordinary way. But I'm in dreadful
danger. American men are good to women, even strangers. You can save my
life, if you will--or more than my life. But there's only one way." Her
words came fast, on panting breaths, as though she had been running. The
girl had stood at first, her hand on the door-knob, but losing her
balance with a jerk of the train, she let herself fall into the seat.
There she sat with her head thrown wearily back, her eyes appealing to