he was gone.

CHAPTER VIII

YOU ARE PETER KELLY

Within a few moments Kent was at the phone.

"I want four, four, four, four. Is that four, four, four, four? Mr.
Throgton's house? I want Mr. Throgton. Mr. Throgton speaking? Mr.
Throgton, Kent speaking. The Riverside mystery is solved."

Kent waited in silence a moment. Then he heard Throgton's voice--not a
note in it disturbed:

"Has anybody found Kelly?"

"Mr. Throgton," said Kent, and he spoke with a strange meaning in his
tone, "the story is a long one. Suppose I relate it to you"--he paused,
and laid a peculiar emphasis on what followed--"_over a game of
billiards_."

"What the devil do you mean?" answered Throgton.

"Let me come round to your house and tell the story. There are points in
it that I can best illustrate over a billiard table. Suppose I challenge
you to a fifty point game before I tell my story."

It required no little hardihood to challenge Masterman Throgton at
billiards. His reputation at his club as a cool, determined player was
surpassed by few. Throgton had been known to run nine, ten, and even
twelve at a break. It was not unusual for him to drive his ball clear
off the table. His keen eye told him infallibly where each of the three
balls was; instinctively he knew which to shoot with.

In Kent, however, he had no mean adversary. The young reporter, though
he had never played before, had studied his book to some purpose. His
strategy was admirable. Keeping his ball well under the shelter of the
cushion, he eluded every stroke of his adversary, and in his turn caused
his ball to leap or dart across the table with such speed as to bury
itself in the pocket at the side.

The score advanced rapidly, both players standing precisely equal. At
the end of the first half-hour it stood at ten all. Throgton, a grim
look upon his face, had settled down to work, playing with one knee on
the table. Kent, calm but alive with excitement, leaned well forward to
his stroke, his eye held within an inch of the ball.

At fifteen they were still even. Throgton with a sudden effort forced a
break of three; but Kent rallied and in another twenty minutes they were
even again at nineteen all.

But it was soon clear that Transome Kent had something else in mind than
to win the game. Presently his opportunity came. With a masterly stroke,
such as few trained players could use, he had potted his adversary's
ball. The red ball was left over the very