congratulations. As for the girl, it was with difficulty she restrained her tears.

"I think that we have witnessed a tragedy," said Bruce's acquaintance as they walked off; and the barrister agreed with him. He was sorry for Mensmore and his pretty supporter. Mayhap the loss of the match meant a great deal to both of them.

That night he learned by chance that Mensmore lived at the Hotel du Cercle. He met him in the billiard-room and tried to inveigle him into conversation. But the young fellow was too miserable to respond to his advances. Beyond a mere civil acknowledgement of some slight act of politeness, Bruce could not draw him out.

Next morning he saw Mensmore again. If the man looked haggard the previous evening his appearance now was positively startling, that is, to one of Bruce's powers of observation. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have seen that Mensmore had not slept well. Bruce was assured that, for some reason, the other's brain was dominated by some overwhelming idea, and one which might eventuate in a tragic manner were it to be allowed to go unchecked.

For some reason, he took a good deal of interest in his unfortunate fellow-countryman, and determined to help him if the opportunity presented itself. It came, with dramatic rapidity.

During dinner, he noticed that Mensmore was in such a state of mental disturbance that he ate and drank with the air of one who is feverishly wasting rather than replenishing his strength.

Soon after eight o'clock, at the hour when frequenters of the Casino go there in order to secure a seat for the evening's play, Mensmore quitted the dining-room. Bruce followed him unobtrusively, and was just in time to see him enter the lift.

The barrister waited in the hall, having first secured his hat and overcoat from the bureau, where he happened to have left them.

Even while he noted the descending lift, in which he could see Mensmore, who had donned a light covert coat, the breast of which bulged somewhat on the left side, the hotel clerk came to him, triumphantly holding a letter.

"And now, monsieur," cried the clerk, "we shall see what we shall see."

The missive was addressed to the mysterious Sydney H. Corbett and had been forwarded by the Sloane Square Post-Office.

With a clang, the 

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