“Which at the present moment is at home,” completed the other. “Will you allow me to refer to it tomorrow, if I am suspicious of the accuracy of your recollections?” “Undoubtedly,” returned the other. “Very well, then, I will wager you a cool fifty that you cannot tell where you were between the hours of ten and eleven on a certain night which I will name.” “Done!” cried the other, bringing out his pocket-book and laying it on the table before him. Joe followed his example and then summoned me. “Write a date down here,” he commanded, pushing a piece of paper towards me, with a look keen as the flash of a blade. “Any date, man,” he added, as I appeared to hesitate in the embarrassment I thought natural under the circumstances. “Put down day, month, and year, only don’t go too far back; not farther than two years.” Smiling with the air of a flunkey admitted to the sports of his superiors, I wrote a line and laid it before Mr. Smithers, who at once pushed it with a careless gesture towards his companion. You can of course guess the date I made use of: July 17, 19--. Mr. T--, who had evidently looked upon this matter as mere play, flushed scarlet as he read these words, and for one instant looked as if he had rather fly the house than answer Joe Smithers’s nonchalant glance of inquiry. “I have given my word and will keep it,” he said at last, but with a look in my direction that sent me reluctantly back to my retreat. “I don’t suppose you want names,” he went on; “that is, if anything I have to tell is of a delicate nature?” “Oh, no,” answered the other, “only facts and places.” “I don’t think places are necessary either,” he returned. “I will tell you what I did and that must serve you. I did not promise to give number and street.” “Well, well,” Joe exclaimed; “earn your fifty, that is all. Show that you remember where you were on the night of”--and with an admirable show of indifference he pretended to consult the paper between them--“the seventeenth of July, two years ago, and I shall be satisfied.” “I was at the club for one thing,” said Mr. T-; “then I went to see a lady friend, where I stayed until eleven. She wore a blue muslin--What is that?” I had betrayed myself by a quick movement which sent a glass tumbler crashing to the floor. Zulma Zabriskie had worn a blue muslin on that same night. You will find it noted in the report given me by the policeman who saw her on their balcony. “That noise?” It was Joe who was speaking. “You don’t know Reuben as well as I do or you wouldn’t ask. It is his practice, I am sorry to say, to accentuate his pleasure in draining my bottles by dropping a glass at every third one.” Mr. T---- went on.