He nodded to the friendly night clerk, and received a favorable response
to his request, even at that unwholesome hour, for coffee and scrambled
eggs to be served in his rooms.

He found Long, his assistant, slumbering sonorously in an armchair in
the living-room of his modest suite. The open door to the chamber
beyond, sufficiently indicated where his charge had been placed.

Long awoke, and stretched himself with a yawn.

"Three o'clock," he observed, with a glance at the mantel clock. "Made a
good haul, hey? Well, your kidnapped beauty is in there, dead to the
world. I tied her feet together before I went to sleep. You can't tell
when they're going to come to, you know, and I thought it would be
safer. Now, tell a feller, what's the dope?"

Brencherly entered the adjoining apartment without deigning an answer,
switched on the lights and approached the bed. The wizen little woman,
with her disheveled white hair and tumbled garments looked pitifully
weak and helpless; her thin, claw-like hands clutching at the pillow in
a childish pose. Her captor stared at her intently, his brain crowded
with strange thoughts. Who was she? What was her history? He had his
suspicions, but they all remained to be verified.

He took one of the emaciated wrists in his hand. How frail and small it
was, and yet, perhaps, an instrument in the hands of Fate. She moved
uneasily, and, glancing down, he noticed how securely she was bound.
Leaning over, he loosened the curtain cord with which she had been
secured. She sighed as if relieved, and, turning, he left her, as a
discreet tapping at his door announced the coming of the meal he had