"My, but you're gamer than ever, Fatty," retorted Barney with admiration. Thoughts of picking up hitherto unsuspected clews flitted through his mind. He had his man "pinched," why not play him awhile? It seemed not a half bad idea to the Central Office man. "Well, I'll humor you this once. Step aboard. No funny business, now. I've got my smoke wagon right here. Remember, you're under arrest." They swung aboard just as the train started. As McAllister sank into his seat in the parlor car with Barney beside him he recognized Joe Wainwright directly opposite. Here was an easy chance to prove his identity, and he was just about to lean over and pour forth his sorrows to his friend when he realized with fresh humiliation that should he seize this opportunity to explain the present situation, the whole wretched story of his Christmas in the Tombs would probably be divulged. He would be the laughing-stock of the club, and the fellows would never let him hear the last of it. He hesitated, but Wainwright took the initiative. "How d'y', Chubby?" said he, getting up and coming over. "On your way to Blair's?" "Yes. Almost missed the confounded train," replied McAllister, struggling for small talk. "Who's your friend?" continued the irrepressible Wainwright. "Kind o' think I know him. Foreigner, ain't he? Think he was at Newport last summer." "Er--ye--es. Baron de Ville. Picked him up at the club--friend of Pierrepont's. Takin' him out to Blair's--so hospitable, don'cher know." He stammered horribly, for he found himself sinking deeper and deeper. "Like to meet him," remarked Wainwright. "Like all these foreign fellers." McAllister groaned. He certainly was in for it now. The 125th Street idea would have to be abandoned. "Er--_Baron_"--he strangled over the name--"_Baron_, I want to present Mr. Joseph Wainwright. He thinks he's met you in Paris." Our friend accompanied this with a pronounced wink. "Glad to meet you, Baron," said Wainwright, grasping the detective's hand with effusion. "Newport, I think it was." The "Baron" bowed. This was a new complication, but it was all in the day's work. Of course, the whole thing was plain enough. Fatty Welch was "working" some swell guys who thought he was a real high-roller. Maybe he was going to pull off some kind of a job that very evening. Perhaps this big chap in the swagger flannels was one of the gang. Barney was thinking hard. Well, he'd take the tip and play the hand out. "It ees a peutifool efening," said the Baron. The train plunged into the tunnel. "Look here," hissed McAllister in Barney's ear. "You've got to stick this thing out, now, or I'll be the butt of the town. Remember, we're going to the Blairs at Scarsdale. You're the particular friend of a man named Pierrepont--fellow with a glass eye who owns a castle somewhere in France. . . . Are you satisfied yet?" he added indignantly.