"When I open my battery, you must publicly resign your place by a
simple telegram. And then jump out of New York to some secret haunt
until I telegraph you to come to Detroit and make your deeds for
the stolen property."

Clayton saw the cogency of his friend's reasoning, and, after
agreeing to meet Witherspoon in the Astor Rotunda each evening until
the sailing of the "Fuerst Bismarck," he proceeded to the office
to take up the white man's burden.

Swinging down Fourteenth Street from Broadway, he paused once more
to look at the lovely Danube scene smiling out from the window of
the Newport Art Gallery.

It was an exquisite artist proof and bore the name of the Viennese
artist and a pencilled address. "I'll buy it at once," thought the
man whose memory now brought back that lovely, wistful face.

As his foot was on the doorstep he paused. "No! It may bring her
back to me! When I go out to the bank I can step in and secure it.
It can remain on exhibition in the window for a few days. She may
be there again to-day, who knows?"

He was under the spell of the unknown beauty again, as he absently
exclaimed, "Pardon me!" when he rudely jostled a sedate-looking
gentleman emerging from the gallery. "My fault, sir," courteously
remarked Mr. Fritz Braun, beaming benevolently through his blue
glass eye screens.