cloth and dishes removed, he tried a game of solitaire, but his mind wandered and without the beneficent assistance of Abel Morris he found he was losing the game. With a sigh he extracted from his bag a book by J. S. Fletcher. He read the last page, then the first, and finally peeped into the seventh chapter. This particular detective story, he decided, would not serve to hold his interest. Yawning, he called the porter to make up his bed.
In the morning the arrival of the train at Kansas City was accompanied by rain. The day, with the dreary Kansas prairie in prospect, was likely to prove intolerable. Ambrose dressed slowly and drank his coffee in the seclusion of his compartment with the door closed. Then, feeling restless, he ventured forth to stroll to the observation car where he sipped a split of Apollinaris. The outskirts of Kansas City, he believed on scrutiny, were more sordid than those of any other metropolis with which he was acquainted. On second thought he recalled that this was his consistent reaction towards the outskirts of any city he viewed from a train. The stenographer addressed him by name and asked if he wanted to send any messages. He considered a telegram to Abel Morris, but quickly relinquished the idea. An extremely pretty girl, who knew how to dress, sat
