"This kind of breaks me all up," he declared, as he gave the instructions to the chauffeur. "If there were two men on the face of this earth whom I'd have been proud to meet in a friendly sort of way, it's you two." "We bear no malice, Mr. Burr," Sogrange assured him. "You can, if you will do us the honour, lunch with us to-morrow at one o'clock at Rector's. My friend here is very interested in the Count von Hern, and he would probably like to hear exactly how this affair was arranged." "I'll be there, sure," Philip Burr promised with a farewell wave of the hand. Sogrange and Peter drove towards their hotel in silence. It was only when they emerged into the civilised part of the city that Sogrange began to laugh softly. "My friend," he murmured, "you bluffed fairly well, but you were afraid. Oh, how I smiled to see your fingers close round the butt of that revolver!" "What about you?" Peter asked gruffly. "You don't suppose you took me in, do you?" Sogrange smiled. "I had two reasons for coming to New York," he said. "One we accomplished upon the steamer. The other was----" "Well?" "To reply personally to this letter of Mr. Philip Burr," Sogrange replied, "which letter, by the by, was dated from 15, 100th Street, New York. An ordinary visit there would have been useless to me. Something of this sort was necessary." "Then you knew!" Peter gasped. "Notwithstanding all your bravado, you knew." "I had a very fair idea," Sogrange admitted. "Don't be annoyed with me, my friend. You have had a little experience. It is all useful. It isn't the first time you've looked death in the face. Adventures come to some men unasked. You, I think, were born with the habit of them." Peter smiled. They had reached the hotel courtyard, and he raised himself stiffly. "There's a fable about the pitcher that went once too often to the well," he remarked. "I have had my share of luck--more than my share. The end must come some time, you know." "Is this superstition?" Sogrange asked. "Superstition pure and simple," Peter confessed, taking his key from the office. "It doesn't alter anything. I am fatalist enough to shrug my shoulders and move on. But I tell you, Sogrange," he added, after a moment's pause, "I wouldn't admit it to anyone else in the world, but I am afraid of Bernadine. I have had the best of it so often. It can't last. In all we've had twelve encounters. The next will be the thirteenth." Sogrange shrugged his shoulders slightly as he rang for the lift. "I'd propose you for the Thirteen Club, only there's some uncomfortable clause about yearly suicides which might not suit you," he remarked. "Good night, and don't dream of Bernadine and your thirteenth encounter." "I only hope," Peter murmured, "that I may be in a position to dream after it!" CHAPTER IX THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN