It had been a busy morning with the astute Lilienthal, and the sudden
arrival of the "big fish," a wary "customer" from the Schuylkill,
caused the dealer to temporarily forget Randall Clayton. He scented
only an ordinary amorous intrigue in the young man's ardent desire
to make that particular "artist proof" his own.

Besides, the postman had just staggered in with a considerable
bundle of letters all addressed to the Newport Art Gallery. There
was a good hour's work for the rosy-faced graduate of a Viennan
cafe in removing the decoy wrappers and assorting the private
correspondence which alone paid the rental of Mr. Lilienthal's
"emporium."

Randall Clayton was already hastening back from the Astor Place Bank,
forgetting his own luncheon in his eagerness to hear once more of
Fraulein Irma Gluyas, when Mr. Fritz Braun had at last disposed
of the morning swarm of "privately attended" customers at Magdal's
Pharmacy.

The blue-spectacled chemist had been working with lightning rapidity
behind his effective screen, following the whispered directions
of his depraved London assistant. It was for him an anxious morning.

His heart would have leaped up in a wild joy had he known how
carefully Randall Clayton had already entered the accidentally
found address in the little silver-clasped address book, in which
he had recorded, with judicious cabalistic cloudiness, the combinations
of his safes and certain vital private business memoranda.