Behind his back sinister yet fascinating rumors circulated. He
was the brilliant but unscrupulous scion of a haughty house in
England. He had taken a first degree at Oxford, over there, and
the third one at police headquarters, over here. Women simply
could not resist him. Let him make up his mind to win a woman and
she was a gone gosling. His picture was to be found in rogues'
galleries and ladies' lockets. And sh-h-h! Listen! Everybody knew
he was the identical crook who, disguised in woman's clothes,
escaped in the last lifeboat that left the sinking Titanic. Who
said so? Why--er--everybody said so!

It came as a grievous disappointment to all when we found out the
truth, which was that he was the booking agent for a lyceum bureau,
going abroad to sign up some foreign talent for next season's
Chautauquas; and the only gambling he had ever done was on the
chance of whether the Tyrolian Yodelers would draw better than our
esteemed secretary of state--or vice versa.

Meantime the real professionals had established themselves cozily
and comfortably aboard, had rigged the trap and cheese-baited it,
and were waiting for the coming of one of the class that is born
so numerously in this country. If you should be traveling this
year on one of the large trans-Atlantic ships, and there should
come aboard two young well-dressed men and shortly afterward a
middle-aged well-dressed man with a flat nose, who was apparently
a stranger to the first two; and if on the second night out in the
smoking room, while the pool on the next day's run was being
auctioned, one of the younger men, whom we will call Mr. Y, should
appear to be slightly under the influence of malt, vinous or
spirituous liquors--or all three of them at once--and should,