"What did you do then? How did you manage to stay on the train?" "Oh, I jest stuck dere, Marse Warren. Dis nigger has had enough 'sperience in dis world to know dat he spends all he has w'en he has it. So de day you left I takes de money you gives me for a railroad ticket, an' buys one an' puts it inside my pocket. So, I was ready for dis Marcum. I follows 'im to Lueyville, whar I telegram to you, and keeps right on 'is trail w'en he changes cars for Cincinnati. He keeps on comin' to Noo York, an' I am in de day coach all dat time. Den I follows right to de Manhattan Hotel. He ain't nebber been in Noo York befoh, because he walks all de way to de hotel instid o' takin' a taxicab. Dat man ain't no _quality_!" Warren was lost in thought. He stopped at the next corner. "Listen, Rusty. You did good work. I wanted to have you find him, and instead he came right to me. Now, we must end this whole thing to-night." For an instant the Kentuckian was nonplused, and instinctively turned to the old family servant with that curious trust which the native Southerner instinctively places in the "family" negro. "What shall I do now, Rusty?" Rusty's usually big eyes narrowed to slits in which the whites were hardly visible. "Marse Warren, jest wait for dat man. He's here, you knows it, for your life. Ef you cain't git him, _I can_. I got mah razor an' dat's a better weepon dan any ole gun. You jest wait--an' let me do de rest." Warren turned and started back toward the club. "I'll be waiting at the Export Club, Rusty. If he hunts up my address on Madison Avenue, the hall boy will send him there. If he wants to see me, he already has my address--and everyone in Meadow Green knows the club as my address. Now, you go up to the rooms I have taken in the Belmont Hotel. The room number is 417--you just wait there until you hear from me. What did you mean by 'supplies' in that telegram, Rusty?" The darky chuckled. "Lawsee, Marse Warren, I knows dat you is a reg'lar Noo Yorker by dis time and don't carry de supplies of a gentlemen. I mean a .38-caliber! Has you got one?" Warren smiled for the first time since their surprising meeting. "No, I guess I have become a victim of New York. The worst weapon I have on me, Rusty, is a fountain pen--and I'm afraid Jim Marcum couldn't read the ammunition!" Rusty looked slyly about him. They were in a dark spot on Fifth Avenue, the shop fronts deserted and not a pedestrian within a block. The darky slipped his hand into his pocket, and surreptitiously handed his master a heavy, portentous automatic which would have sent joy into the heart of a Texas Ranger. There was a vibration of honest pride in his voice as he explained: