The detective, fidgeting at what he manifestly regarded as wasted time, presently excused himself, on the plea of wanting to do some telephoning, and sauntered off, and, with his going, Grail turned back a couple of pages to point out significantly to Cato the name of Dabney, with a little, almost indistinguishable mark set opposite it. No further discovery was elicited until they reached the last page; then Grail gave a sudden start, as he read, with the same cabalistic mark against it, the name of Rezonoff. “Rezonoff!” he muttered, with a frown of grave foreboding. “That can only be Count Boris Rezonoff, captain in the imperial engineers!” Cato, gathering from his tone that something was seriously wrong, edged up closer. “Is it bad, sir?” he whispered. Grail vouchsafed no answer, but stood silent a moment, the look of apprehension growing on his face; then snapped open his watch and glanced at the time. “Too early, by far,” he commented, under his breath. “I shall have to wait at least two hours yet.” Meanwhile, Cato, glancing over his shoulder, had been reading down the page of the notebook, and now he gave a quick exclamation. “There’s another name with that same mark against it,” he breathed excitedly. “Don’t you see it! Down there at the bottom, underneath your thumb!” But Grail, as though recalled to himself, sharply closed the book. “Oh, that one is of no consequence,” he insisted; yet he knew that it was, for he had already noted the name with the telltale check opposite. In Sasaku’s stiff, angular handwriting was set down: “Mrs. Otto Schilder!” TO BE CONTINUED. THE NEGRO AND THE HORSE. There is a time for everything, and the secret of success in life lies in doing things at just the right minute. A veterinary surgeon had occasion to instruct a colored stableman how to administer medicine to an ailing horse. He was to get a common tin tube--a bean blower--put a dose of the medicine in it, insert one end of the tube into the horse’s mouth, and blow vigorously into the other end, and so force the medicine down the horse’s throat. Half an hour afterward, the colored man appeared at the surgeon’s office, looking very much out of sorts. “What is the matter?” inquired the doctor, with some concern. “Why, boss, dat hoss, he--he blew fust!” THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS. Story of “Scotty” Hero of Zinc Fields. Picture a man who has been badly bent at times--aye, even broke unto the last jitney--one who has tasted the bitter things of life along with the sweet, one who has seen a fortune swept away in a twinkling, only to be regained after a long, persistent struggle. Picture a good loser, who has lost more than most men will ever earn, and who pins his faith in the mining industry to such an extent that he laughs at failure and hangs on like a bulldog until he succeeds, and you have a mind’s-eye view of J. M. Short, the best known operator in the mining district near Joplin, Mo.--the “Scotty” of the zinc fields.