without a reading—I'd begin to believe in the supernatural! As it is"
When he entered his rooms that evening to dress for dinner it was to find an American Beauty rose ornamenting his dressing-table, pinned to a Trey of Hearts.
Interrogated, his valet deposed ignorance of the matter.
When Alan returned from dinner and the theatre, it was to find a solitary rose reposing with blushing effrontery upon his pillow. The inevitable Trey of Hearts, it appeared, had crawled in between the covers.
That made three of each.
Mr. Law sat down and thought. Then he summoned his valet—and discharged him.
"The Lord," he said, "may love a liar. But I'm human. Here's a month's wages. Clear out of this in three minutes. ..."
When morning came, London had lost Alan Law. No man—nor any woman—had received warning of his disappearance. He was simply vanished from English ken.
