The eavesdropper on the other side of the partition, who had caught most of the conversation, moved ever so slightly to stretch his cramped limbs, and then pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his heated face. As he did so a small slip of paper dropped, unseen by him, from his pocket to the floor. A large black cat came softly over to him and he lifted the animal up and placed her on the table before him. He stroked the purring feline and listened intently to catch the conversation which drifted to him through the vine-covered broken window panes. Apparently the two men were preparing to leave. "Does the Senator really think to marry?" asked the Colombian, as he picked up his hat. "I judge so. He is obviously very much infatuated with the girl's unusual type of beauty. And, believe me, she thoroughly understands the art of managing men." "Indeed? Who is the girl?" "The young daughter of the famous Irish actress, Nora Fitzgerald. Senator Carew...." Crash--the bottle and glass smashed in pieces. The eavesdropper never stopped to see the damage he had done, but with incredible swiftness and stealth was out of the room and down the street before the irate proprietor had reached the deserted table. "_Que hay?_" inquired the Colombian of the proprietor. He and the American had rushed into the room and over to the window by which the eavesdropper had been sitting. "A drunken Spaniard knocked the bottle and glass from the table, and cleared out without paying the damage," explained the proprietor in Spanish, as he signed to the _mozo_ to sweep up the mess. "What's that in your hand?" "A card, Señor, which I have just picked up from the floor." "Let me have it." "_Si, Señor, con mucho gusto._" He quickly handed the paper to the Colombian. The American looked over his companion's shoulder as the latter adjusted his eyeglasses and held up the visiting card so that both could see its contents. With staring eyes and faces gone white they read the engraved inscription: MR. JAMES CAREW MARYLAND. CHAPTER II AFTER THE BALL "Fifty-four!" bellowed the footman through his megaphone for the sixth time, and he slanted his umbrella to protect his face from the driving rain which half-blinded him. A waiting automobile, whose chauffeur had mistaken the number called, moved slowly off and gave place to a carriage and pair. "Fifty-four," mumbled the coachman, checking his restive horses with difficulty. The footman turned, touched his hat, and beckoned to Cynthia Carew, who stood waiting in the vestibule. With a rueful glance at the wet sidewalk, she gathered her skirts up above her ankles and, propelled by the sturdy arm of her escort, Captain Lane, was landed breathless at the carriage door. "In with you," laughed Lane, as his umbrella was almost dragged from his hand by the high wind. "Your wrap is too pretty to be ruined...." Cynthia was half lifted, half pushed inside the landau.... "Good night, my dearest."