“Confound that waiter!” he exclaimed. “There are no matches on the table, and I don’t believe I have one in my pocket.” “I have some,” smiled the baroness, who had been taking a costly, gold-tipped Turkish cigarette from a gold case. “Here!” She took from her chatelaine a small gold match box--a companion piece to the cigarette case--and pressing open the cover, offered it to the detective. He saw, as he took one of the wax matches in his fingers, that it was an exact duplicate of the burned match he had picked up in the bedroom of Mrs. de Puyster van Dietrich that morning. Wax matches generally are more or less alike, but these were much thicker than most of them. He was obliged to drop his eyes to veil the gleam of excitement in them. Then, coolly striking the match, he held it until the baroness’ cigarette was going. When he lighted his own, he blew out the match and dropped it carelessly to the floor at his feet. “May I take a match or two from your box, in case of emergency, until I get some,” he asked, smiling. Then, as she nodded assent, he continued: “When am I to have the pleasure of another round with you on the links?” The baroness laughed gleefully, and she answered his questions by asking another: “Do you do everything as seriously as you play golf, Colonel Pearson?” “I suppose so,” smiled Nick. “It always seems to me that anything worth doing at all should be taken up earnestly.” “I believe that, too,” she returned, still laughing. “I was only thinking that it was not unusual for you to find yourself pitted against women. Judging by the way you played this morning, I should say you respect the prowess of my sex, no matter how poorly they may play.” “You are right, baroness,” admitted the detective. “I have played the game very often against women.” “And do you always win?” “Is that a fair question?” “I was curious to know.” “I did not win this morning.” “But you didn’t lose,” she rejoined quickly. “So there is neither decided so far.” “Perhaps we’d better leave it to the next game we shall play against each other,” suggested Nick, with a peculiar smile. “Yes,” she assented gayly. “The next game we shall play. Do you think you will win that game, Colonel Pearson?” “If I do, it won’t be for lack of a worthy adversary,” he replied, with a deep bow. They chatted about golf and other things for another half hour. Then the baroness, after thanking “the colonel” for the pleasant evening he had afforded her, arose to go to her room. Nick Carter accompanied her to the elevator. When the car had shot upward, he hurried back to the table where they had been sitting in the restaurant and picked up the half-burned wax match he had dropped after lighting his cigarette. As he slipped the match into his waistcoat pocket, to keep company with the other two whole matches he had borrowed from Baroness Latour’s gold match box, he ran against James Mallory in the lobby.