“Come, Grey, out with it exactly! I want it all--and unvarnished!” “Well,” said I, bracing my voice with a swallow, “those affairs at certain country places along Long Island Sound have long been puzzling us, and----” I might have spared myself my hesitation, for he didn’t so much as turn a hair. “Oh, so that was all, eh? Then he said nothing about----” He checked the sentence to another question: “What do you know about Pawlinson, anyway?” “Precious little,” I answered him, and I let my manner tell as much as it could of my contempt for the fellow. “In fact, I never heard of him till he came into prominence about three years ago at Washington. And that’s about all any one in the service knows. He’s understood to be something of a mystery.” Stroth grunted. “I don’t doubt it--I don’t doubt it,” said he, as to himself. Then came another slight interval of silence, during which I puffed away contentedly at the panetela, for I felt no presentiment of coming trouble. In fact, I was beginning rather to enjoy the situation. I knew men well enough to read in Stroth that he had not lost sight of the saving part I had played the night before; though, as I sat there looking at him, I confessed to myself he was a puzzle in some way--distinctly a puzzle. He came out of his momentary abstraction with a shout of enthusiasm that was positively boyish: “Then it’s to be a little pleasure trip, after all! Good enough, Grey! And I believe you’ll find that----” Here I was fool enough to enter a wedge of curiosity. “Then all that dope about this being the schooner that has been working the Sound is absolute bunkum, Mr. Stroth?” It was as if I had touched a match to bomb. His brow darkened, and he bit out: “I believe I’m doing pretty well by you! But, of course, you have your choice--that is--pleasure trip--or otherwise. Understand me? Otherwise.” I hastened to shift. “Nothing I like better than a sailing voyage, Mr. Stroth,” and I let him know by my laugh that I realized he had me. “I didn’t think you were a fool,” he replied, in lighter vein. “So here we have it, then, and it’s the last word I want spoken on the subject. We’re bound for Savannah, Georgia. Simple enough, eh? Till then you’re my guest, we’ll say. And, after we reach port, I’ll have your word that you let three days go before you get the wires hot to headquarters. Now, take the proposition or leave it!” “I understand at last, Mr. Stroth,” said I slowly, “and my worst enemy can’t say I’m not a man of my word.” As suddenly as he had left it he whirled back to boyishness. “Fine--fine!” And he actually slapped me heartily on the shoulder. “By the way, what time is it?” As if in answer, seven bells rang out. “Good enough! There’s plenty of time to show you something before dinner. And if you’re interested in that sort of thing we’ll certainly have an enjoyable trip!” Well, here, indeed, was a man of moods. TO BE CONTINUED. THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER. By E. K. NOSTWELL.