She stopped with a little gasp, her face turned very pale, and she sat rigid in her chair, staring with fear-filled eyes at a man who was advancing hastily across the room toward the table. That man was—Jones! Frank recognized the fellow at once as the smug-faced rascal whom he had first seen in the guise of a country parson in company with Hilda Dugan on the little lake steamer far away in Maine. There was a look of triumph and exultation on the face of the man, whose eyes were fastened upon Hilda Dugan as he rapidly approached the table. She shrank back and seemed about to utter a cry of fear, which, however, she repressed. Merry started to rise quickly and step between her and Jones, but she caught him by the arm, whispering: “Sit still! He has found me, but he will not dare touch me. Don’t make a scene, please!” Scenes were quite as offensive to Merry as they could be to her, and so he remained seated, though on the alert and ready to defend her instantly if necessary. Jones, dressed from head to heels in black, came up to the table and stopped, never taking his eyes off the girl. “So I have found you at last, have I, Miss Dugan?” he said in a low tone, as he coolly sat down at the table. “A nice trick you played me, but it was foolish of you to think you could lose me so easily.” “Pardon me, sir,” said Frank, “I will not permit you to address a lady in my company in such an insulting manner. If you do not retire at once and cease to annoy her, I’ll call an officer, and have you arrested.” Jones actually smiled. “I hardly think you will,” he said sneeringly. Frank longed to knock him down. “I swear I will!” he said, ready to keep his word. “If you do,” said Jones easily, “she will spend to-night in a cell.” The girl shuddered, and shrank away. Merry was startled and set back, all at once struck by the fear that this girl had done something criminal, else how dared the man speak in such a manner. “If she has,” thought Frank, “she will stop me.” And he turned as if to call a waiter and ask for an officer. Again Hilda clutched his arm, panting: “Please don’t do it. It will do no good!” Jones stood by, triumphant, smiling, sneering. “Why don’t you call an officer, sir?” he asked. “I ought to, you miserable whelp!” muttered Merry, baffled. “I ought to call one and demand that you be arrested for an attempt to murder me in the Maine woods three years ago.” This gave the man a start, and he stared at Merry in astonishment. “You?” he said. “Why, who the dickens are you? Hanged if I don’t believe you are the chap Dugan planned to blow up with powder! Yes, you are!” “Right! And you are the miserable dog who aided him in that little piece of work. I am very sorry we met here. Had it been elsewhere, it would have given me great satisfaction to thrash you till you begged like a cur at my feet!” Jones showed his teeth.