"If Virginia knew that Dorothy was in the hands of the Dago, why did she keep it secret? And what business had Beauchamp out on the Barnes road last night?" Sam derided the idea of him being out there alone, for a spin. With these thoughts, and others, pregnant with momentous possibilities, he continued the search. Finding nothing more, he sprang onto the path that led to the tangle of vines. There was the very spot. No mistaking it. Along that fence he had crept in the darkness of night. Those the leaves he had touched with his hands, and he thrust his stout cane among them, but no hiss, or rattle, or glitter of something sinister, greeted his probing now. Into the gloomy recess of the jungle he made his way, derisively fearless of any possible lurking danger. He parted the overhanging foliage to let in more light. Ah, it was all plain now. There close to his elbow was the artfully concealed exit through the foliage, and the pickets loose at the bottom. There the man had stood--not more than a foot of space separating them when Sam's hand touched the leaves, and the glitter--well, it was the vicious glint of an ugly knife. Of that Sam now felt perfectly satisfied. Pushing the leaves further apart to enlarge the opening overhead, so as to admit more light, he discovered several strands of hair of a brownish color clinging to the end of a broken twig in the cavity of the tangle, which he at once conjectured had been torn from the man's false beard. These strands of hair Sam carefully gathered and placed between the leaves of his notebook. "Maybe, maybe they'll be useful some day. I guess so," he muttered. He resumed the search, but with the exception of a few indistinct shoeprints on the soft soil, found nothing more to interest him, and squeezing himself through the aperture in the fence, he quickly emerged on the Barnes road, well satisfied with his morning's work. One hour later, with his hat jauntily set on the side of his head, effectually concealing the wound, Sam was walking on Third street, in front of the "Plaza" blocks, where several vegetable vendors rendezvous preparatory for their morning's work. Several bustling women, hotel stewards and others were out early, marketing. As he wended his way through the bargain-driving throng, the loud voice of an olive-skinned huckster standing on the rear footboard of his heavily-laden wagon, attracted his attention. It was a covered, one-horse express wagon, common on the city streets, and contained a motley assortment of oranges, bruised bananas, melons and the like. He was putting in a paper bag some bananas he had sold to a woman, who stood by, at the same time talking volubly--evidently in an effort to fend off her too curiously searching eyes from the over-ripe fruit. "Eesa good-a da lady. Nice-a da ripe-a." "Oh, they are too ripe! Put in those other ones, they don't look so soft." "Eesa note-a da soft-a; only a da black-a da skin. Look-a," and he peeled a diminutive banana.