"So you were the fellow who had me searched and held up at my own front door," said Indiman. "Confound your impudence! What did you expect to get?" "Why, the letter, sir. I had figured it out that you was the black-mailer." "Oh, the deuce! And in the mean time the real article had been put on his or her guard by all this hullabaloo, and the Countess Gilda's game was blocked." "That's it, sir. A mistake all round." "I should think so. Well, there's nothing more to be done. That's all you know about the case?" "That's all, sir." "Never heard of the Queen of Spades in this connection?" "Never, sir." "Well, good-night, officer. Brownson's your name, eh? I shan't forget it." "Good-night, sir." The night was fine, and we walked home. Over on Eighth Avenue a masquerade ball was in progress; we passed under the brightly lit windows of the hall in which it was being held. A masker stood at the door, a woman dressed to impersonate the Queen of Spades. She waved her hand to Indiman, who had chanced to look up; then she plucked a rose from her bodice and tossed it over to him. He caught the flower, as becomes a gallant man, but immediately walked on. "That was your cue--the Queen of Spades," I said. "Not at all. It is only the third time that counts. First at the opera, and now here; the final and only important appearance is still to come." At the next corner a wretchedly clad woman sat grinding a small barrel-organ. "For the love of Mary!" she whimpered, and Indiman thrust something into her waiting hand. He tried to hide the action, but I had caught sight of the money--a yellow-backed bill bearing the magic figures 50. "Did you notice the tune?" said Indiman, as we walked on. "The Ninety-and-Nine." VI The Queen of Spades I am very fond of Esper Indiman, but there are times when he is positively unfit for human society. Last week, for instance, when for three days on end we did not exchange a single word, not even at dinner, where the amenities should come on at least with the walnuts. I grant you that humdrum wears upon the spirit, that the flatness of the daily road may be a harder thing to get over than even Mr. Bunyan's hill Difficulty, but for a man to surrender himself mind and body to solitaire argues weakness. Moreover, it was a ridiculous combination of the cards that Indiman invariably set himself to resolve; the chances were at least a hundred to one against the solitaire coming out, and, indeed, I never saw him get it but once. Under rather curious circumstances, too--but I won't anticipate; let us begin with the beginning of the adventure of the Queen of Spades.