The door of the house stood ajar. Before Waldemar had recovered from his surprise, Average Jones was inside the house. Hesitation beset the editor. Should he follow or wait? He paused, one foot on the step. A loud crash within resolved his doubts. Up he started, when the voice of Average Jones in colloquy with the woman who had received them before, checked him. The colloquy seemed excited but peaceful. Presently Average Jones came down the steps. “They left the ad,” said he. “Have you seen it?” “No; I hadn’t time to get a paper,” replied Waldemar, taking the copy extended to him and reading in large display: OFFER TO PHOTOGRAPHERS $1,000 Reward for Special, Flash-light Photo of Governor Arthur in To-night’s Pageant. Must be Taken According to Plans and Specifications Designated by the Late Nick Karboe. Apply to A. JONES, Ad-Visor. Astor Court Temple, New York City. “No wonder they ran,” said Waldemar with a grin, as he digested this document. “And so must we if we’re to get through the crowd and reach the reviewing stand,” warned Average Jones, glancing at his watch. Their seats, which they attained with some difficulty, were within a few feet of the governor’s box. Within reach of them sat Carroll Morrison, his long, pale, black-bearded face set in that immobility to which he had schooled it. But the cold eyes roved restlessly and the little muscles at the corners of the lips twitched. “Tell me that he isn’t in on the game!” whispered Average Jones, and Waldemar nodded. The sound of music from down the street turned all faces in that direction. A roar of cheering swept toward them and was taken up in the stands. The governor, in his high coach, came in sight. And, at that moment, terror struck into the soul of Waldemar. “Suppose they came back!” he whispered to Average Jones. “We’ve left the house unguarded.” “I’ve fixed that,” replied the Ad-Visor in the same tone. “Watch Morrison!” Governor Arthur approached the civic statue. An official, running out to the coach, handed him a silken cord, which he secured with a turn around the wrist. The coach rolled on. The cord tautened; the swathings sundered and fell from the gleaming splendor of marble, and a blinding flash, followed by another, and a third, blotted out the scene in unbearable radiance. Involuntarily Morrison, like thousands of others, had screened his sight with his hands after the second flash. Now, as the kindlier light returned, he half rose, rubbing his eyes furiously. A half-groan escaped him. He sank back, staring in amaze. For Governor Arthur was riding on, calm and smiling amid the shouts. Morrison shrank. Could it be that the governor’s eyes were fixed on his? He strove to shake off the delusion. He felt, rather than saw, the guest of honor descend from the coach; felt rather than saw him making straight toward himself; and he winced and quivered at the sound of his own name.