"I am in your debt, Mr. Indiman, and you must permit me to discharge the obligation. My dear uncle, your purse." Indiman bowed and accepted the fifty-dollar bill tendered him. "Now we are quits," she said, smiling. "Not quite," he answered, hardily. He drew a half-dollar from his waistcoat-pocket and offered it to her. A flood of color mantled her brow, but she took the coin and slipped it into her glove. "Well?" she asked, her small chin defiantly uptilted. "I have only one question," said Indiman, earnestly. "Is there danger for you?" "None in the world." "Then I am quite satisfied." She softened at that. "Only a rather aggravating disappointment; it does not matter now. But why will you men interfere in an unoffending woman's affairs." "I had no idea--" "Of course not. However, we need not enter further into particulars. Your friend in the orchestra-stall yonder will doubtless enlighten you later on." A stout man with one ear distinctly larger than the other deliberately faced about in his seat and directed his glasses at our box. Immediately upon this the curtain went up on the last act, and his Excellency held up his hand to command silence. "Madame," said Indiman, as he handed the Countess Gilda to her carriage, "I swear to you that the blunder I have unintentionally committed shall be atoned for. I ask but a hint--the slightest of clews." "With pleasure, monsieur. I give you, therefore, the third appearance of the Queen of Spades. Au revoir! We sail to-morrow by the Cunarder." The man with the disproportionate ears touched Indiman's elbow. "Beg pardon, sir," he said, deferentially, "but I shall have to have a word or two with you." We drove to the Utinam Club and found a secluded corner. "Now, what is it, officer?" said Indiman. The detective looked rather sheepish. "I'm afraid we've made a mess of it between us. Case of political blackmail, you see, and the young lady thought she could handle it herself. And so she could have done if we hadn't butted in, begging your pardon for so saying." "Get to the point." "Well, then, it's a question of a letter belonging to a great person in Roosha--written to or by her don't matter. The letter is here in New York, and it isn't a question of money with the holder, but power. There's only one thing to do in that case--steal it, and the Countess thought she could turn the trick. So she went over on the Rooshan East Side and laid her pipes to stand next to the old party who holds the precious document. At the Baron's request I was detailed from the Central Office and instructed to keep my eyes on the young woman and my hands off the case. 'Course, then, I couldn't do neither. I lost the girl when you walked off with her at the house-smiths' bazaar, and then I had to stick in my oar and answer your personal in the Herald. I laid what I thought was a pretty smart trap. You fell into it, right enough."