"Cut that out, you fool!" Minot shouted. The fireman, who had suspected himself of saving a human life, looked hurt. Minot regained his window. Disheveled, smoky, but victorious, he half fell, half climbed, to the ground. The fire chief faced him. "Who was you trying to rescue?" the chief demanded. His eyes grew wide. "You idiot," he roared, "they ain't nobody in that dress." "Damn it, I know that," Minot cried. He ran across the lawn and stood, a panting, limp, battered, ludicrous figure before Cynthia Meyrick. "I--I hope it's the right one," he said, and held out the gown. She took his offering, and came very close to him. "I hate you!" she said in a low tone. "I hate you!" "I--I was afraid you would," he muttered. A shout from the firemen announced that the blaze was under control. To his dismay, Minot saw that an admiring crowd was surrounding him. He broke away and hurried to his room. Cynthia Meyrick's final words to him rang in his ears. Savagely he tore at his ruined collar. Was this ridiculous farce never to end? As if in answer, a distant clock struck twelve. He shuddered. To-morrow, at high noon! CHAPTER XX "PLEASE KILL" Early Tuesday morning, while Mr. Minot still slept and mercifully forgot, two very wide awake gentlemen sat alone together in the office of the _San Marco Mail_. One was Manuel Gonzale, proprietor of that paper, as immaculate as the morn; the other was that broad and breezy gentleman known in his present incarnation as Mr. Martin Wall. "Very neat. Very neat indeed," said Mr. Wall, gazing with evident approval at an inky smelling sheet that lay before him. "It ought to do the work. If it does, it will be the first stroke of luck I've had in San Marco." Gonzale smiled, revealing two even rows of very white teeth. "You do not like San Marco?" he ventured. Mr. Wall snorted angrily. "Like it? Does a beheaded man like the ax? In a long and golden professional career, I've never struck anything like this town before for hard luck. I'm not in it twenty-four hours when I'm left alone, my hands tied, with stuff enough to make your eyes pop out of your head. That's pleasant! Then, after spending two months and a lot of money trailing Lord Harrowby for the family jools, I finally cop them. I give the crew of my borrowed boat orders to steam far, far away, and run to my cabin to gloat. Do I gloat? Ask me. I do not gloat. I find the famous Chain Lightning's Collar is a very superior collection of glass, worth about twenty-three cents. I send back the glass, and stick around, hoping for better days. And the best I get is a call from the owner of my yacht, with orders to vacate at once. When I first came here I swore I'd visit that jewelry store again--alone. But--there's a jinx after me in this town. What's the use? I'm going to get out." "But before you go," smiled Manuel, "one stroke of luck you shall have."