written; and it sent a thrill of delight and speculation to his
impressionable heart. Still carrying the tray before him he hastened
over to the club, where there was something of an ovation. Instead of
a dinner for three it became one for a dozen, and Fitzgerald passed the
statuettes round as souvenirs of the most unique bet of the year.
There were lively times. Toward midnight, as Fitzgerald was going out
of the coat room, Cathewe spoke to him.

"What was her name, Jack?"

"Hanged if I know."

"She dropped a card on your tray."

Fitzgerald scrubbed his chin. "There wasn't any name on it. There was
an address and something more. Now, wait a moment, Arthur; this is no
ordinary affair. I would not show it to any one else. Here, read it
yourself."

"Come to the house at the top of the hill, in Dalton, to-morrow night
at eight o'clock. But do not come if you lack courage."

That was all. Cathewe ran a finger, comb-fashion, through his
mustache. He almost smiled.

"Where the deuce _is_ Dalton?" Fitzgerald inquired.

"It is a little village on the New Jersey coast; not more than forty
houses, post-office, hotel, and general store; perhaps an hour out of
town."