business and mine. Lilienthal will let you know when I am coming
back, and advise you."

The two lovers had met, far away at Manhattan Beach, after Madame
Raffoni had discreetly piloted Clayton over to a sandy hollow where
a half-burned spar gave a convenient resting-place, before Fritz
Braun and Lilienthal had finished an acrimonious settlement of
some private money matters.

"I'm not a wolf," growled Braun. "You square up as if you were
never going to see me again. You need me more than I need you."

They were in the safe seclusion of the "Private Room" of the Newport
Art Gallery, judiciously vacated for the occasion, when a strange
fear took possession of the sly pleasure pander, Mr. Adolph
Lilienthal.

"See here, Braun," he huskily said, a mean suspicion seizing upon
him, "You're not cutting stick for good! You're not going to 'blow
on me' and 'give me away!' By God! I believe it," he said in fright,
as he noted Braun's pale face.

"It's two months since I've seen Irma Gluyas. Damn you! You've sent
her over to the other side, and got all your papers safe! You've
turned revenue spy! I see your game!"

Before the words were out of his mouth, Braun had dragged the
venal scoundrel down in a strangler's grip. Planting his knee on
his chest, he hissed, "One more word and I'll throttle you here!
I can go out by the side entrance! You dare not scream! You fool!