It is a listless, warm evening at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Our believer in “Three” is gathered casually with two of his friends. There is no business abroad; those missions which called our gentleman of the gypsy chain up-town are all discharged; he is off duty--unbuckled, as it were, in cheerful, light converse over a bottle of wine. Let us name our friend of the Three, “James of the Beads;” while his duo of comrades may be Reed and Rand respectively. Such is man’s inconsistency that James of the Beads is railing at Reed who has told--with airs of veneration if not of faith--of a “system,” that day laid bare to him, warranted to discover in excellent rich advance, the names of the winning horses in next day’s races. James of the Beads laughs, while Reed feebly defends his credulity in lending the countenance of half belief to the “system” he describes. Then a sudden impulse takes James of the Beads. His face grows grave while his eye shows deepest thought. “To-morrow is the third of the month?” observes James of the Beads. Now with emphasis: “Gentlemen, I’ll show you how to select a horse.” Then to Reed, who holds in his hands the racing list: “Look for to-morrow’s third race!” Reed finds it. “What is the third horse?” “Roysterer.” “Roysterer!” repeats James of the Beads. “Good! There are nine letters in the name; three syllables; three r’s!” Then James of the Beads seizes with both hands, in a sort of ecstatic catch as catch can, on the gypsy chain of magic. He holds a bead between the thumb and fore-finger of each hand. Softly he counts the little yellow globes between. “Thirty-three!” ejaculates James of the Beads. Deeper lights begin to shine in his eye. One test of the chain, however, is not enough. He must make three. A second time he takes a bead between each fore-finger and thumb; on this trial the two beads are farther apart. Again he counts, feeling each golden bullet with his finger’s tip as the tally proceeds. “Sixty-six!” There arrives a glow on the brow of James of the Beads to keep company with the gathering sparkle of his eye. The questioning of the witch-chain goes on. Again he seizes the beads; again he tells the number. “Ninety-nine!” The prophecy is made; the story of success is foretold. James of the Beads is on fire; he springs to his feet. Rand and Reed regard him in silence, curiously. He walks to a window and sharply gazes out on the lamp-sprinkled evening. “Twenty-third street! Fifth avenue! Broadway!” he mutters. “Still three--always three!” Unconsciously James of the Beads seeks the window-shade with his hand. He would raise it a trifle; it is low and interrupts the eye as he stands gazing into the trio of thoroughfares. The tassel he grasps is old and comes off in his fingers. James of the Beads turns his glance on the tassel. “That, too, has its meaning,” says James of the Beads, “if only we might read it.”