Uncertainly he replaced the pencil and paper in his pocket. Then he laughed. "Shall we dance?" "That," she told him, "I understand." They danced--and they danced well together. And while they were getting better acquainted, a hundred miles to the south a man was stopped by a motorcycle policeman for traveling too fast. "Name?" snapped the policeman. "Harold Farman." "Driver's license?" "Why ... er ... I--" "No license?" "Well, it's here. But--" The policeman nodded. "Gimme," he snapped. Harry Foster cursed himself for forgetting. For even trying to run under an assumed name without changing every bit of evidence. But the policeman looked rather rough, and Harry handed over the license. "This says 'Harry Foster'," grunted the cop. "I'm Harry Foster." "That wasn't the name you gave me," said the cop pointedly. "Look, officer, I'm about to meet a young lady--we're meeting at the Border to marry in Mexico. Her father objects, and he's influential enough to send out word that I'm to be picked up on some pretext and held. That's why." The officer nodded sensibly. "Sounds reasonable," he said, "and logical, and just about as silly as the usual guy who tried to elope." "Well--thanks, officer. And may I bet you fifty that today is Sunday?" "Today's Tuesday," replied the officer. "My goodness," said Foster in surprise. "I lose, don't I?" He handed the officer a folded fifty. The officer took it and smiled dryly. "You lose," he told Foster, "because so far as I know, there's a Lieutenant Miller of the Los Angeles police that has a dragnet out for Harry Foster--the motion picture hero!" "Now look--" "I've looked," said the cop, "and you're it. Will you come quietly or will you come horizontal?" Harry Foster laughed. "I'm not _that_ Harry Foster," he said. "No?" "No." "And how am I going to tell?" "Call Miller. I happen to know that the moving picture star died not more than a few days ago." "That," said the policeman, closing his book, "is something that we can check but quickly. You'll come along while we check it, though." "I'll come," said Foster cheerfully. He went. The policeman called. Miller gave him the right answer, that the wanted man, Harry Foster, had been buried within the week. No, there was no mistake. The dead man's identity had been established to the satisfaction of every interested agency. The F.B.I. and the local police had seen to it that the dental work checked, fingerprints, everything including visual identification by friends, enemies, wife, and business associates. Harry Foster left a short time later with an internal grin. He--was dead. Ergo--he could not be punished! He laughed wildly as he resumed his driving, but his driving was less wild. There was a thoughtful quality about it. At the Mexican Border, Harry Foster stopped for rest and while resting he read the newspaper. It carried the usual run of gossip columns, and in one of them Harry Foster saw--and read with growing interest: