“If you ever need anything in the way of electric fixtures or repairing, remember me, Mr. Sampson,” he said. “Telephone and address as per card. Keep it, please. I am in business for myself. The Trans-Continental Electric Supply Emporium.' “Here's my card, Mr. Sampson,” said No. 12. “I'd like to come around and give you a little spiel on our new model some day soon. We're practically sold up as far as December, but I think I can sneak you in ahead--what say?” “I have an automobile, thank you. Two of them, in fact.” He mentioned the make of car that he owned. No. 12 was not disheartened. “You could have fifteen of our cars for the price you paid for yours--one for every other day in the month. Just bear that in mind. A brand new car every second day. Let me see: your address is--” He paused expectantly. “The Harvard Club will reach me any time.” No. 12 started to write it down but paused in the middle of “Harvard” to grasp the extended hand of his new friend. “I fancy you can remember it without writing it down,” went on Sampson, smilingly. “Never trust to memory,” said No. 12 briskly. “This burg is full of clubs and--well, so long!” No. 7 was still troubled about luncheon. “I'm sorry you can't go to the Vanderbilt and have a bite--a sandwich and a stein of beer, say.” No. 12 turned to speak to a passing acquaintance, and No. 7 seized the opportunity to whisper tensely: “She's staying there. I followed her three times and she always went to the Vanderbilt. Got off the Subway at Thirty-third Street and--” “She? What she?” demanded Sampson, affecting perplexity. No. 7 was staggered. It was a long time before he could say: “Well, holy Smoke!” And then, as Sampson still waited: “Why, _her_, of course--who else?” Sampson appeared to understand at last. He said: “A ripping good hotel, isn't it?” “A peach,” said No. 7, and then they parted. That evening Sampson dined at the Vanderbilt. At first, like No. 7, he wasn't quite sure whether he would dine upstairs or in the Della Robbia room. He went over the ground very thoroughly before deciding. At eight o'clock he disconsolately selected the main dining-room and ate, without appetite, a lonely but excellent dinner. He wondered if No. 7 could have lied to him. CHAPTER V He also dropped in at the Vanderbilt for lunch on Thursday. Friday morning he was in the court-room, ostensibly to hear sentence pronounced. He sat outside the railing. Seven of his fellow-jurors straggled in as the hour for convening court approached. Sampson found himself flanked by No. 7 and No. 12, the former a trifle winded after a long run from Worth Street. In a hoarse wheeze he informed Sampson that “she'll be here in a minute,” and, sure enough, the words were barely out of his mouth when Alexandra Hildebrand entered the court-room with Mr. O 'Brien.