"That I have," answered the gratified Brownson. "Keep close eye on Grenelli, Officer Smith, and I may be able to overlook your shortcomings of this morning. I say, Mr. Indiman, but there's a regular miracle in this 'ere business. Now, how do you suppose this blessed little twopenny box ever come through an earthquake like that there." "I'll never tell you," said Indiman. We had been dining with Ellison, the deferred settlement of that little account which we had been owing him since August. However, we made it up, interest and all. The occasion had been an undeniably cheerful one, and it was close to midnight when we finally separated. Ellison went on his way up-town and Indiman and I stood on the corner waiting for a hansom, for as it chanced there was not a single disengaged one in the rank before the restaurant. "Here we are," said Indiman, and raised his stick as a four-wheeler was about to pass us. But the driver made a negative sign and drove on. "He has a fare, after all," said Indiman, with some annoyance. "But look, Thorp!" The rolling shades at the doors had been closely drawn, but just as the carriage came opposite us a sudden jolt displaced the spring catch of the curtain and up it flew with a snap. There were two persons in the cab, and the electric light from the corner shone full upon them. The one nearest us was an undersized, swarthy-faced person who wore a Turkish fez; his companion was a portly man attired in evening clothes and having his head entirely enveloped in a bag of some dark material gathered at the neck by a draw-string. With an exclamation that might pass for a blood-curdling Levantine oath the man of the fez seized the window-curtain and pulled it down; the carriage rolled on. "An extraordinary spectacle," I remarked. "There ought to be a big story behind that." "I admit," said Indiman, calmly, "that it is not usual for gentlemen to drive about town with their heads done up in black bags. Nevertheless, I doubt if there is much in the mystery worthy of a connoisseur's attention. It strikes me as smacking of the made-up, the theatric; it has something of the air commercial about it--an advertisement, perhaps." "Nonsense!" I retorted, warmly. "Well, let the event decide. The cab's number--did you note it?" "No." "It was No. 872," said Indiman. XI The Philadelphia Quizzing-Glass