deceiver, who had so roused the ambition of poor Francesco. All day they wandered through the streets of the vast city, inquiring from time to time for San Antonio, where, Francesco thought, they would find Padre Innocenti. By chance they stood before the vast cathedral.

"Let us go in," Concetta whispered. Throngs of people were passing up and down the steps. The curtain at the central door was held up for them by a cripple with a wooden leg and a crutch. He was white-haired and his face looked like the leather of the curtain which he held. Francesco shivered and felt in his pocket for a soldo.

V

"WHAT do you suppose has become of No. 45?" said the blonde lady. "I believe that I stayed over the train in the hope of seeing him. We are the only people in the world who ever came twice to this place."

"I stopped over to see that Niccolò once more," said the dark lady severely. "I may be extravagant enough to stay till tomorrow and go again to Montecorbo—at least I may, if I find No. 45;" and they laughed at their mutual folly.

"Listen," said the blonde lady. "What a wonderful voice!"

To Francesco and Concetta the great church, with its gilded ceiling, gorgeous paintings, and shining marble pavement, seemed beautiful as Paradise might be. With a sure instinct Concetta led her lover on, on, up the long nave, till at the left, in the last chapel they saw a hundred candles burning before a tall statue of Our Lady. Concetta forgot everything, and Francesco almost forgot his pain. The Madonna had pink cheeks, and her dress was pink and blue silk, with tinsel. A score of worshippers knelt on the chapel steps among the votive wreaths of wax and glittering beads. On the lowest stair, half-frightened by this splendid vision of the Queen of Heaven, so unlike the little figure in the roadside shrine, Concetta knelt with Francesco beside her. His crutch rattled on the pavement as he laid it down.

Outside in the porch, as they came away, Concetta plucked at her lover's arm. "Look, Francesco!"

In a corner stood a boy on crutches, with a tray of small merchandise slung about his neck. He was laughing as he made change. His hair curled about his head, and his dark face was beautiful.

"Thou couldst do that, thou also, Checco mio!" said Concetta timidly.

His quick eye instantly noted the strangers, and he came nimbly toward them. "Do you wish some matches, Signore?" he asked with the old smile.

"Sì, sì"-began the blonde lady, and stopped.

"Madonna mia!" exclaimed Francesco. "It is my signora!"

"Helen," cried the blonde lady," Helen, it is No. 45!"

"If the signore would have the kindness to stay," said Francesco, as he stumped beside them toward their hotel, "Tonino will give good service. Sì, sì, I might go also on the box with Tonino. It would be a great honor to accompany the signore."

"Will you take us by way of the farm, to see Concetta?" asked the blonde lady.

"Ma sì, Signora, surely. The signora is very kind. And there is the bambina. She has eleven months, Signore; she is beautiful, you know.”

"Is she as beautiful as her mother?" Francesco shrugged his shoulders, and smiled wisely.

"Eser sempre bellissima, Concetta," he said. "Always very beautiful."

own part in the transaction, during which he had not only recovered the famous jewels but had also connived at the escape of the criminal-his old valet, Wilkins. No, Peter could know nothing of them, yet vaguely McAllister felt that this stranger must in

It was evident that this "party" must want to see him very badly indeed.

"What shall I say, sir ?" continued Peter gently.

McAllister glanced sharply at him. Of course it was absurd to suppose that Peter, or anyone else, had heard of the extraordinary events at the Blairs' the night before; of the theft of the Benson pearls, the escape of the burglar in McAllister's coat and hat under the very nose of the best detective on the New York police, and the clubman's

some mysterious way be connected with the

Occurrences re

ferred to.

In

any case there was no use trying to duck the consequences of the adventure, whatever they might prove to be.

"I'll see him," said the clubman. Maybe it was another detective after additional information, or perhaps a reporter. Without hesitation he crossed the marble hall and parted the portières of the visitors' room. Before him stood the rain

soaked, bedraggled figure of the valet. "Wilkins!" he gasped.

The burglar raised his head and disclosed a countenance haggard from lack of sleep and the strain of the pursuit. Little rivers of rain streamed from his cuffs, his (McAllister's) coat-tails, and from the brim of his master's hat, which he held deprecatingly before him. There was a look of fear in his eyes and he trembled like a hare which pauses uncertain in which direction to escape.

"You see, sir," continued Wilkins in accents of breathless terror, "I caught the train last night and reached the city a'ead of the detective. I knew 'e'd 'ave telegraphed a general halarm, so I 'id in a harea all night. This mornin' I thought I'd given 'im the slip, but I walked square into 'im on Fiftieth Street. I took it on a run hup Sixth Havenue, doubled 'round a truck, an' thought I'd lost 'im, but 'e saw me on Fifty-third Street an' started dead after me. I think 'e saw me stop in 'ere, sir. Wot shall I do, sir? You won't give me hup, will you, sir?"

Before McAllister could reply there was a commotion at the door of the club, and herecognized the clear tones of Barney Conville. "Who am I? I'm a sergeant of policeDetective Bureau. You've just passed in a burglar! He must be right inside. Let me in, I say."

not enter. Then Peter came to the rescue. "What do you mean by tryin' to force vour way into a private club, like this? I'll telephone the inspector. Get out of here, now! Get away from that door!" "Inspector nothin'! Let me in!"

"Have you got a warrant?"

The question seemed to stagger the detective for a moment and his adversary seized the opportunity to close the door. Then Peter knocked politely upon the other side of the curtains.

"I'm afraid, Mr. McAllister, I can't keep the officer out much longer. It's only a question of time. You'll pardon me, sir?"

"Of course, Peter," answered McAllister.

He stepped to the window. Outside he could see Conville stationing two plainclothes men so as to guard both exits from the club. McAllister's breath came fast. Wilkins crouched in terror by the centre-table.

Then a momentary inspiration came to the clubman.

"Er-Peter! This is my friend, Mr. Lloyd-Jones. Take his coat and hat, give me a check for them, and then show him upstairs to a room. He'll be here for an hour or so."

"Very good, sir," replied Peter without emotion, as he removed Wilkins's dripping coat and hat. "This way, sir."

Casting a look of dazed gratitude at his former master, the valet followed Peter toward the elevator.

"Here's a nice mess!" thought McAllister, as he returned to the big room. "How am I ever goin' to get rid of him? And ain't I liable somehow as an accomplice?" He wrinkled his brows, lit a Perfecto, and sank again into his accustomed place by the window.

"That policeman wants to see you, sir," said the doorman, suddenly appearing at his elbow. "Says he knows you, and it's somethin' very important."

His

The clubman smothered a curse. first impulse was to tell the impudent fellow to go to the devil, but then he thought better of it. He had beaten Conville once, and he would do so again. When it came to a show-down he reckoned his brains were about as good as a policeman's.

"All right," he replied. "Tell him to sit down;-that I've just come in, and will be with him in a few moments.'

"Very good, sir," answered the servant. McAllister perceived that he must think rapidly. There was no escape from the conclusion that he was certainly assisting in the escape of a felon; that he was an accessory after the fact, as it were. The idea did not increase his happiness at all. His one experience in the Tombs, however adventitious, had been quite sufficient. Nevertheless, he could not go back on Wilkins particularly now that he had promised to assist him. McAllister rubbed his broad forehead in perplexity.

"The officer says he's in a great hurry,