sketched some sort of a device with the pencil which he had picked up, and which instead of black-lead contained a peculiar shade of yellow crayon. Felix sat as though turned to stone.     

       “Try,” Mr. Sabin said smoothly, “and avoid that air of tragedy. Some of these good people might be curious.”      

       Felix leaned across the table. He pointed to the menu card.     

       “What does that mean?” he muttered.     

       Mr. Sabin contemplated it himself thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I rather thought that you might be able to explain that to me. I have an idea that there is a society in Europe—sort of aristocratic odd-fellows, you know—who had adopted it for their crest. Am I not right?”      

       Felix looked at him steadfastly.     

       “Tell me two things,” he said. “First, why you sent for me, and secondly, what do you mean—by that?”      

       “Lucille,” Mr. Sabin said, “has been taken away from me.”      

       “Lucille! Great God!”      

       “She has been taken away from me,” Mr. Sabin said, “without a single word of warning.”      

       Felix pointed to the menu card.     

       “By them?” he asked.     

       “By them. It was a month ago. Two days before my cable.”      

       Felix was silent for several moments. He had not the self-command of his companion, and he feared to trust himself to speech.     

       “She has been taken to Europe,” Mr. Sabin continued. “I do not know, I cannot even guess at the reason. She left no word. I have been warned not to follow her.”      

       “You obey?”      

       “I sail to-morrow.”      

       “And I?” Felix asked.     

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