enjoyment in that master romancer of the Cabarabian Nights. "Don't talk to me of Dickens' Christmas Stories," Aubrey said to himself, recalling his adventure in Brooklyn. "I'll bet O. Henry's Gift of the Magi beats anything Dick ever laid pen to. What a shame he died without finishing that Christmas story in Rolling Stones! I wish some boss writer like Irvin Cobb or Edna Ferber would take a hand at finishing it. If I were an editor I'd hire someone to wind up that yarn. It's a crime to have a good story like that lying around half written." He was sitting in a soft wreath of cigarette smoke when his landlady came in with the morning paper. "Thought you might like to see the Times, Mr. Gilbert," she said. "I knew you'd been too sick to go out and buy one. I see the President's going to sail on Wednesday." Aubrey threaded his way through the news with the practiced eye of one who knows what interests him. Then, by force of habit, he carefully scanned the advertising pages. A notice in the HELP WANTED columns leaped out at him. WANTED--For temporary employment at Hotel Octagon, 3 chefs, 5 experienced cooks, 20 waiters. Apply chef's office, 11 P.M. Tuesday. "Hum," he thought. "I suppose, to take the place of those fellows who are going to sail on the George Washington to cook for Mr. Wilson. That's a grand ad for the Octagon, having their kitchen staff chosen for the President's trip. Gee, I wonder why they don't play that up in some real space? Maybe I can place some copy for them along that line." An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he went over to the chair where he had thrown his overcoat the night before. From the pocket he took out the cover of Carlyle's Cromwell, and looked at it carefully. "I wonder what the jinx is on this book?" he thought. "It's a queer thing the way that fellow trailed me last night--then my finding this in the drug store, and getting that crack on the bean. I wonder if that neighbourhood is a safe place for a girl to work in?" He paced up and down the room, forgetting the pain in his head. "Maybe I ought to tip the police off about this business," he thought. "It looks wrong to me. But I have a hankering to work the thing out on my own. I'd have a wonderful stand-in with old man Chapman if I saved that girl from anything. . . . I've heard of gangs of kidnappers. . . . No, I don't like the looks of things a little bit. I think that bookseller is half cracked, anyway. He doesn't believe in advertising! The idea of Chapman trusting his daughter in a place like that----"