After the affair of the auto bandits--three of whom were killed--a lull followed. If you're a sailor you know what kind of a lull I mean--blue-black clouds down the southwest horizon, the water crinkly, the booms wabbling. Suddenly a series of "accidents" began to happen to Norton. At first he did not give the matter much thought. The safe which fell almost at his feet and crashed through the sidewalk merely induced him to believe he was lucky. At another time an automobile came furiously around a corner while he was crossing the street, and only amazing agility saved him from bodily hurt. The car was out of sight when he thought to recall the number. Then came the jolt in the subway. Only a desperate grab by one of the guards saved him from being crushed to death. Even then he thought nothing. But when a new box of cigarettes arrived and he tried one and found it strangely perfumed, and, upon further analysis, found it to contain a Javanese narcotic, a slow but sure death, he became wide awake enough. They were after him. He began to walk carefully, to keep in public places as often as he possibly could. He was not really afraid of death, but he did abhor the thought of its coming up from behind. Except for the cigarettes they were all "accidents;" he could not have proved anything before a jury of his intimate friends. He never entered an elevator without scrupulous care. He never passed under coverings over the sidewalks where construction was going on. Still, careful as he was, death confronted him once more. It was his habit to have his coffee and rolls--he rarely ate anything more for his breakfast--set down outside his door every morning. The coffee, being in a silver thermos bottle, kept its heat for hours. When he took the stopper out and poured forth a cup it looked oddly black, discolored. It is quite probable that had there been no series of "accidents" he would have drunk a cup--and died in mortal agony. It contained bichloride of mercury. Very quietly he set about to make inquiries. This was really becoming serious. In the kitchens clown-stairs nothing could be learned. The maid had set the thermos bottle before the door at ten-thirty. Norton had opened the door at one-thirty--three hours after. The outlook was not the cheerfulest. He knew perfectly well why all these things "happened;" he had interfered with the plans of the scoundrels who were making every possible move to kidnap Florence Hargreave. One afternoon he paid Florence a visit. Of course he told her nothing. They had become secretly engaged the day after he had rescued her from the auto bandits. They were secretly engaged because Florence wanted it so. For once Jones suspected nothing. Why should he? He had troubles enough. As a matter of fact, Norton was afraid of him in the same sense as a boy is afraid of a policeman. [Illustration: THEY HAD BECOME SECRETLY ENGAGED]