It was brought, and Jack was obliged to confess the justice of the Deputy's description. It was the product of an insane brain. One could not read more than a line or two before the head began to whirl. But Jack discovered a clew in the manuscript which had apparently escaped the police. He did not call the attention of the Deputy to it, but made a mental note for his own use. On the first page under the many and fantastic titles of the proposed work was a dedication in two words: "_To Barbarossa_" Jack walked uptown turning over the word "Barbarossa" in his mind. Where had he heard it before? Was it the name of a famous historical character or an ocean liner? The sign of a branch of the Public Library gave him an idea. He went in and consulted an encyclopedia. This told him two things; firstly, that Barbarossa meant Redbeard, and secondly, that the original Barbarossa was a Turkish sea rover. As he was unable to figure out any connection between the old freebooter and a modern anarchist, he deduced that the old nickname had been re-applied to some new wearer of a red beard. At the library desk he inquired: "Is there any writer on anarchistic subjects who signs himself Barbarossa?" "We have very little of that sort of matter," the lady librarian assured him frigidly. "There is no such name in our catalogue of authors." "Is there a bookstore where they make a specialty of such writings?" asked Jack. The librarian admitted with strong distaste that there was, and gave him the address. It was a little basement shop far on the East side. It was presided over by a lanky-haired, spectacled youth, who sneered at Jack's good clothes, and was prepared to hate him on the spot. "Have you anything by Barbarossa?" Jack asked at a venture. "Barbarossa's never written any books that I know of," was the surly reply. Jack thought with satisfaction: "Then there is a Barbarossa!" Aloud he said: "I mean anything he's written." The youth looked at him suspiciously. "I heard him speak," said Jack glibly. "I'm crazy to learn more about his ideas." "Barbarossa writes for the _Future Age_ magazine," said the snaky-haired one. "He's one of the editors. How is it you don't know that if you know him?" "I don't know him," said Jack. "I only heard him speak. Have you got a copy of the _Future Age_?" The young book-seller produced it. "There's his article this month," he said, pointing to a title in the contents. The author's name given opposite was Arno Sturani. "Is that Barbarossa's real name?" asked Jack. "Everybody knows that!" was the scornful reply. Jack bought the magazine, as well as other anarchistic publications that caught his eye. He told himself it would be a good idea to study up their lingo a little, against a future need. At a corner drug-store in the neighborhood he purchased a sheet of cheap note-paper and an envelope, and on the counter laboriously composed the following note: _Mr. Arno Sturani:_ _Dear Sir:_