Morton dropped into a chair. If he was perturbed at being “made” he did not show it. He was generally reputed one of the two or three cleverest operators in the government service. “That was good work you did on Iowa Slim, from all I hear,” he vouchsafed. “There’s a better coming up,” replied Lanagan, indifferently. “What brings you to Bresci’s?” Morton shrugged his shoulders. “You know the two rules of our department?” “Guard the president and turn up counterfeiters,” said Lanagan. “Well, Lanagan, you’ve got the cachet to me from a good friend. The secret service man loses his job who talks; but I don’t mind taking a chance with you and telling you in confidence that in this particular case I’m not guarding the president; being as he is, as you know, in Washington.” “Haven’t been sampling any--er--_salami_?” drawled Lanagan. Morton laughed. “You sure are a clever one at that. No. I haven’t come across any that suited my palate. I’m particular.” We had a _café royale_--with Lanagan pouring his thimble-full of cognac in my glass--and Morton left. “The Camorra, it develops,” said Lanagan, “have been shipping to this country from ---- excellent counterfeit American bank notes. They ship them in _salami_ sausages. Maybe if one has gone astray we will get a slice of bank note with our _salami_ and _sauté_, for here it comes on a tray with the fair Bina serving.” Bina, Bresci’s daughter, was an Italian of absolute beauty; one of those glowing faces and perfect forms you see in the old Italian masters. I noticed in a moment that the comely Bina had much attention to show Lanagan. We finished our meal and Lanagan led the way to the inner room, where the piano was located. I had heard him at different times sputter out “rag,” but when Nevin’s “A Day in Venice” suite came breathing softly beneath his finger tips from out of that wrangly piano I could but listen in amazement. Man of mysterious beginnings, he had dropped into the San Francisco newspaper game over night, been given his “try-out” by the brotherhood, found to speak the language of the tribe, and had thereafter been unconditionally accepted. Such a mess as the Bradley affair only served to emphasise his leadership. With the last fine chord of the _Buona Notte_ there was a stillness broken only by the instant and ecstatic handclapping of Bina. If I ever saw the thing called Love shine forth from the human eyes, it suddenly illuminated those dusky eyes that moment. “O Madonna! Madonna!” she cried, softly. “Encore! Encore!” Lanagan zipped through a lustspeil, to drop back then to the Last Composition. It was truly remarkable, the manner in which he brought the encroaching blindness of the great Beethoven sobbing out of the misery of the minor base. “Did a lot of that sort of thing when I was younger,” he said, apologetically. “Before the wanderlust hit me.”