The enraged person proved to be Jarvis Hammon. He was hatless,
purple-faced, shaken with combative fury. At first the two new-
comers thought he was dangerously drunk, but, as they mounted to
the tiled terrace which served as an outdoor eating-place they saw
their mistake. Recognizing Merkle, Hammon's manner changed
instantly.

"John!" he cried. "By God! you're just in time."

"What's happened?"

"Blackmail, or worse. I hardly know, myself. These ruffians put up
something on me--they're all in it, even the manager."

The latter, a sleek Frenchman with ferocious mustaches and
frightened eyes, wrung his hands in supplication.

"M'sieu 'Ammon," he bleated, "you ruin me. Such accusation is
terrible. But wait. Calmness. The man will be caught."

"Caught, hell!" roared the steel magnate. "You know who he is.
Give him to me. How did he get in here if you didn't know him? How
did he get his camera fixed without your knowledge? I'll have your
scalp for this. I'll close this place and the city place, too." A
uniformed doorman appeared with a smoking lantern in his hand, and
Hammon wheeled upon him. "Well? Did you find him?"

"We can't find nobody. There was a car outside the grounds, but
it's gone now."