To say the least, he must have been a curious combination of the poetic and the matter of fact, of the dreamer and the doer, otherwise that revolver in his pocket, for instance, was decidedly out of place. Such was the case, and, moreover, the man had had many ups and downs, which his pretty wife had shared. The latter was an American girl, who had married him some five years before, and who now--because funds were low--had returned to her former calling. In other words, she was back on the stage, in the chorus of a Broadway production. Elaine Stowe was the name by which she was professionally known. Max was a most devoted husband, and never allowed his young wife to return from the theater alone. As a rule, he left the flat about half past ten, and was waiting at the stage door when Elaine came out. To-night, however, he was so absorbed in his mandolin--and in other things--that he forgot all about the flight of time, and he was positively amazed when the door opened and there walked into the room a remarkably attractive and well-formed young woman, cheaply but effectively dressed, with an innocent, babyish face lighted by a pair of big blue eyes. “Elaine!” he ejaculated, jumping up and laying his instrument aside. “Why are you home so early to-night?” “Early!” the girl echoed with a laugh, unbuttoning her gloves. “Do you call half past eleven early?” “Never!” he cried, dragging out his watch. “By George, so it is! What a thoughtless brute I am to let you come home alone. I fully intended to come for you as usual, but I just sat down to play for an hour, and the combination of the music and my plans for the future made me forget everything else.” “Your plans for the future?” Elaine repeated, with just a touch of irony in her voice. “More plans of making our fortunes, I suppose?” Her husband nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “I know what you think, but you’re wrong this time, as it happens. These plans are the real thing, and I’m going to put them through.” Elaine shrugged her dainty shoulders. “I wonder how often I’ve heard that,” she said wistfully. “We’re always going to make our fortunes, but somehow or other something always turns up at the last moment and messes up our schemes.” “I’ll tell you while we’re having supper,” Max replied. “I haven’t too much time, for I must start in three-quarters of an hour.” “Start? Where are you going?” his wife asked curiously, as she removed her hat and coat. “That doesn’t come until almost the end of the story,” was the answer. “Sit down and you’ll hear it all.” The girl obeyed wonderingly, and Max began. “Do you remember,” he said, “that very shortly after I started work at the Marmawell, I told you I had a suspicion that Alfred Knox Atherton was more or less crooked?”