“they’ll be full of it!” Already in imagination he saw the headlines. “‘A Clever Haul!’” he quoted. “‘Noted band of crooks elude New York police, but are captured by Forbes Kinney.’”        He sighed contentedly. “And they’ll probably print my picture, too,” he added.     

       I knew I should be angry with him, but instead I could only feel sorry. I have known Kinney for a year, and I have learned that his “make-believe”        is always innocent. I suppose that he is what is called a snob, but with him snobbishness is not an unpleasant weakness. In his case it takes the form of thinking that people who have certain things he does not possess are better than himself; and that, therefore, they must be worth knowing, and he tries to make their acquaintance. But he does not think that he himself is better than any one. His life is very bare and narrow. In consequence, on many things he places false values. As, for example, his desire to see his name in the newspapers even as an amateur detective. So, while I was indignant I also was sorry.     

       “Joe,” I said, “you’re going to get yourself into an awful lot of trouble, and though I am not in this adventure, you know if I can help you I will.”      

       He thanked me and we went to the dining-saloon. There, at a table near ours, we saw the lovely lady and Stumps and the American. She again smiled at me, but this time, so it seemed, a little doubtfully.     

       In the mind of the American, on the contrary, there was no doubt. He glared both at Kinney and myself, as though he would like to boil us in oil.     

       After dinner, in spite of my protests, Kinney set forth to interview him and, as he described it, to “lead him on” to commit himself. I feared Kinney was much more likely to commit himself than the other, and when I saw them seated together I watched from a distance with much anxiety.     

       An hour later, while I was alone, a steward told me the purser would like to see me. I went to his office, and found gathered there Stumps, his American friend, the night watchman of the boat, and the purser. As though inviting him to speak, the purser nodded to the American. That gentleman addressed me in an excited and belligerent manner.     

       “My name is Aldrich,” he said; “I want to know what YOUR name is?”      

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