For an instant his heart sank, for, in spite of everything, he had been thrilled by the prospect opened up by the stranger’s words. Then he shrugged his shoulders. After all, it would be rather diverting to see how the fellow would get out of the affair, and Barry was sadly in need of something to take his mind from his own difficulties. "My time, then, except for lunching and dining and sleeping, will be my own?" he inquired seriously. "Exactly." "You wish me to register at the St. Albans under my own name?" "That’s a matter for you to decide. It’s quite immaterial to me." "I suppose it would be a waste of time to inquire why you are willing to pay such a sum for anything so very simple," Lawrence remarked tentatively. "Quite so!" the stranger returned emphatically. "That is altogether my affair. Well, what do you say?" Barry kept his face serious with difficulty. "Say?" he repeated. "Why, I accept, of course. I’d be a fool not to." The unknown arose briskly. "Good!" he said. "Suppose we take a stroll outside. This place is getting close." Without question, Lawrence followed him out into the great vaulted space. What was the fellow going to do? How was he going to escape carrying out his side of the bargain with any plausibility or grace? Of course, he would get out of it somehow, for he was mad—mad as a March hare. But, in spite of this conviction, Barry felt the blood tingling in his finger tips as they walked past the news stand, past the ticket offices, and on to the deserted extremity of the enormous marble hall. *CHAPTER III.* *PANIC.* Clear of the last passer-by, the little man paused, and thrust one hand into the pocket of his inner coat. "There is one other condition," he said, drawing out a thick leather wallet. "Under no circumstances must you explain to any one where you obtained this money. You must be silent regarding every particular of our meeting here, and the terms of our bargain. I have your promise?" Lawrence, his eyes fixed incredulously on the bulging wallet, felt something grip his throat. It could not be true—it simply could not! And yet—— "I promise," he said, in a queer, hoarse voice. The stranger opened the leather flap, and showed the wallet crammed with crisp bank notes. "I have your word to carry out faithfully every condition I have mentioned?" he questioned briskly, fixing Barry with a keen glance. The latter tore his eyes from the bills, and returned the look. "I give you—my word—of honor," he stammered. His brain was whirling. He could not believe his senses. It was all a mad illusion—a dream from which he must soon awake. His heart, thudding loudly and unevenly, drove the blood into his face, a crimson flood. He was trembling, but not with cold. The stranger’s voice seemed to come from far, far away; it had fallen to a mere whisper, which Lawrence could barely catch.