companions. So, I drifted into gambling, into sharp tricks--then
became a mercenary soldier, an officer, in the continuous
revolutions of the southeastern part of Europe. I sank deeper
and at last, in one serious escapade, I managed to have myself
reported dead, so as to quiet the heartaches of my mother, who
believed I was killed on the battlefield. There is the miserable
story--or all I will tell. They caught me in Paris and a girl
betrayed part of my name--fortunately they did not hunt me up, so
my mother was saved that disgrace. Will you keep the secret now,
on our understanding?"

"I give you my word for that, Warren." Shirley rose, putting the
torn-up papers into his pockets. "I am sorry for the past--but
you have made the present for yourself. Good-bye."

Warren returned to his cell and the detective to the club house.

There he found an additional cable message. It said: "Countess
Laschlas has been dead ten months." It was signed like the
other.

Shirley tore up the message, and blinked more than seemed
necessary.

"Poor little old lady, she knows it all now. I will not have to
tell her."

* * *

That afternoon Shirley called again at the Hotel California for