any more offers that evening. There was indicated a need for calm daylight consideration, and a face-to-face meeting with this variable Mr. Cohen.
"But he leaves on the night train," said Miss Caroline. "It may be our last chance, and six hundred dollars is—"
"He only says he leaves," I responded. "And for three days, at least, Mr. Cohen seems to have been grossly misinformed about his own movements. Perhaps he's deceived himself again."
At eight o'clock the following morning Clem served my breakfast for the first time since his illness, and I approached it with thanksgiving for his recovery.
A knock at the door took him from me just as he had poured the first cup of real coffee I had seen for nearly three months. He came back with the card of one James Walsingham Price, whom I did not know; whereas I did know the coffee.
"Fetch him here," I said. "He can't expect me to leave this coffee, whoever he is."
Into my dining room was then ushered a tall, smartly dressed, smooth-faced man of perhaps middle age, with yellowish hair compactly plastered to his head. He became, I thought, suddenly alert as he crossed my threshold. I arose to greet him.
"This is—" I had to glance at the card.
"Yes—and you're Major Blake? I regret to disturb you, Major,"—here his glance rested blankly upon the rich golden-brown surface of Clem's omelette, and it seemed to me that the thread of his
