“I heard you, too,” was the wearied response. “But we’ll take the money that’s in the suit-case, I think. Come across with it, Young!” “You’re a couple of thieves! There ain’t any money in there! I――――” “Seeing’s believing, my friend. Just open that up and show us.” “I won’t! You’ve got all you’re going to get!” He took the suit-case on his knees and hugged his arms over it. “What’s in here is mine!” “Oh, so there is some in there, eh?” The tall man chuckled. “Well, pass it over. Stand by your bargain and don’t play baby. And get a move on, too. We’ll be in Monroe in about ten minutes and then it’ll be too late.” Young glared at the other in impotent rage, but the make-believe Central Office man returned his gaze calmly, untroubledly, compellingly. For a long moment Young hesitated. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he tugged at the straps, opened the suit-case and drew a cigarette box from under the layers of clothing. “There,” he growled, and tossed the box into the man’s lap. Inside it were five folded ten-dollar bills. The man smoothed them out, counted them and passed them silently to Joe. “Fifty and seventeen is sixty-seven,” he said. “That good enough?” he asked. Joe nodded as he stowed the money safely in a pocket. “That’s near enough,” he said. “I ought to make him pay back what it’s cost me to get it, but I won’t.” He turned to Young. “I’m going to hand nine and a half of this to Mrs. Bennett,” he said. “She needs it more than I do, I guess.” Young sneered. “What do I care what you do with it? You’re easy, anyway. If I hadn’t been a fool I’d have got clean away.” Then, fearing perhaps that he had admitted too much, he glanced furtively at the man. “We’re quits now, ain’t we?” “Oh, yes, we’re quits. Or, rather, we’re more than quits, Young. I’m really in your debt for an interesting experience. It’s the first time I ever impersonated a detective and, although I may be taking too much credit, I think I did it rather well, eh?” “_What!_” squealed Young. “You ain’t a――a――――” [Illustration: “_What!_” squealed Young. “You ain’t a――a――――”] “My friend,” was the smiling reply, “I’m only a poor writer of tales who has been doing his best to relieve the tedium of a dull journey. The next time you have dealings with a detective, and something tells me there’s going to be a next time, you ask to be shown his badge. Never take anything for granted, my friend. It’s a wicked world and there are, unfortunately, folks in it ever ready to impose on the credulity of the young and――ah――innocent. Good-night, Mr. Young. And thanks for the amusement you’ve so kindly afforded.” They left him crumpled up in the corner, still holding his open suit-case, an expression of mingled wrath and incredulity on his face. Joe’s new friend led the way back to his chair in the Pullman, where he deposited bag and coat and again changed from derby to cap. Then they returned to the library car and viewed each other smilingly from opposite chairs.