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“And so it, – in a way, – belongs to him,” supplemented Stone. “I begin to see. And how did Judge Hoyt save your life, Stryker?”

“Well, sir, it was a long time ago, and I was accused of – of murder, sir, – and Mr. Hoyt, he wasn’t a judge then, he got me off.”

“Even though you were guilty?” and Fleming Stone’s truth-demanding gaze, brought forth a low “yes, sir. But if you knew the whole story, sir – ”

“Never mind that, Stryker, I don’t want to know the whole story. It was long ago?”

“Yes, sir, a matter of twenty years now.”

“Then let it pass. But ever since, the judge has held your life at his own disposal?”

“Yes, sir, and glad I am to have it so. I’d willingly give it up for him, if so be he asks me.”

“Do you think he will ever do so?”

“I don’t know, sir. It may be.”

“And it may be in connection with this coming trial of Mr. Landon?”

“It may be, sir.”

“And what has he asked you to do, so far?”

Fleming Stone shot out the question so suddenly, that Stryker replied without a moment’s thought, “He says he may ask me to testify that I telephoned to Mr. Trowbridge to go to the woods that day.”

“Ridiculous!” cried Avice. “Why, Stryker, you don’t know about the birds and insects Uncle Rowly was so fond of collecting.”

“Oh, yes, I do, Miss Avice. I used to set his traps for him, often. And I know quite a lot of the long names of the queer beetles and things.”

“Can this be, Miss Trowbridge? Is Judge Hoyt capable of using a false witness thus, to win his cause?”

Avice blushed deeply, and her eyes fell before Stone’s inquiring glance.

“He wouldn’t be, Mr. Stone, except for – Judge Hoyt is a most honorable lawyer. He makes a fetish of punctilious practice. But there is a certain reason why – he might – ”

“You needn’t say any more, Miss Trowbridge. I understand now. It is because of – pardon me if I seem intrusive, – because of you.”

“Yes, Mr. Stone,” returned Avice, simply. “Since you are here to help in this matter, I will tell you frankly, that if Judge Hoyt succeeds in winning his case and freeing Kane Landon, I have promised to marry him.”

Stryker had been dismissed, and the two were alone. With infinite pity, Stone looked at the sad-eyed girl, and intuitively understood the whole situation.

“I see,” he said, gently, “Judge Hoyt is going to sacrifice Stryker for you. It is a clever idea, and he will see to it, somehow, that the old man does not suffer penalty.”

“Yes, it is so. Judge Hoyt told me the only way to get Kane off, is to get somebody else to swear to that telephone message. If Stryker does this, they can’t prove Kane’s guilt.”

“It’s a desperate move,” observed Stone.

“It is; but Judge Hoyt is a desperate man. If he determines to do a thing, he sweeps away all obstacles.”

“A strong nature. And a most capable mind. I was impressed today by his marvelous faculty of making other people see things as he does.”

“Yes,” and Avice sighed. “He can do that. It is that power that I am banking on in his conduct of the trial.”

CHAPTER XXII
JUDGE HOYT’S PLAN

As soon as possible, Avice went to see Landon again, and to tell him what Fleming Stone had said. Though she was not allowed to see him alone, the warden had deep sympathy for the lovers, as he had discovered they were, and he sat as far away from them as possible, apparently immersed in a most engrossing newspaper.

Knowing of his sympathy, Avice promptly forgot his presence, and under the spell of her beauty and love, Landon did likewise.

“And you will be more – more humble, won’t you?” she was saying as hands clasped in hands, they read each other’s eyes.

“Humble! Avice, you’re crazy! Humble? I rather guess not! I didn’t kill Uncle Rowland, and, if they say I did, let them prove it, that’s all. Why, dear, they can’t prove a thing that isn’t so!”

“Do you know, Kane, this is the first time you’ve ever said to me that it isn’t so!” Avice’s eyes were gleaming with joy at the assurance.

“Because, oh, darling, because it hurt me so to have you harbor even a glimmer of doubt! How could you, dearest? Eleanor didn’t.”

“Didn’t she?” Avice showed a flash of jealousy. “What is she to you, Kane?”

“Merely an old friend. We were good chums in Denver.”

“Then why did you pretend you were strangers?”

“Oh, you know, Avice, I wanted that money right then and there. When Uncle wouldn’t give it to me I telephoned and asked Eleanor to lend it to me. She said she’d meet me at the library and bring some bonds that I could sell.”

“Why didn’t you come to the house?”

“I didn’t want to, – on that errand. I suppose I was foolish, but my pride stood in my way. And, too, there was haste. I wanted to send the money out West at once, and then, knowing the mine business was all right, go and see you with a free mind.”

“Well, and then you did meet Eleanor at the Library, but you said at the inquest that you didn’t get the money.”

“What a little cross-examiner it is! No, the bonds she brought me, were some that are now at a low price, but are sure to go up soon. I couldn’t do her the injustice of selling them at the present market, so I refused.”

“And she telephoned you late that night.”

“Yes, to tell me of Uncle’s death. She was the only one who knew I was at Lindsay’s apartment. Of course, dear, I had expected to see you that day, but I was so upset by my quarrel with Uncle Rowland, – he was pretty hard on me, – that I couldn’t trust myself to see him till my temper had cooled off a little. Don’t be jealous of Eleanor Black, Avice, she is a firm friend of yours. She is a frivolous, shallow-hearted woman, but she is a strong and loyal friend. And she was really fond of Uncle, though she doesn’t seem to mourn for him very deeply.”

“And she doesn’t care who killed him!”

“That is part of her volatile nature. She never looks back. To her, only the future counts. I don’t believe she does care who the murderer is. Who do you think, Avice?”

“I can’t form any idea, Kane. I suppose it must have been some stranger, a robber or Black-Hander. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem altogether likely, – Avice, is Fleming Stone coming to see me?”

“Yes, don’t you want him to?”

“Indeed I do. I’ve formed some theories myself, during the long lonely hours I spend here, and I’d like to talk them over with Stone. Avice, what about Stryker? I mean about his bolting, when he feared he would be suspected.”

“He says that was sheer fright. He knew he was innocent, but he couldn’t prove an alibi, so he ran away. He’s very nervous and frightened of late, anyway. And if Judge Hoyt makes him swear he sent that telephone message, I just know he’ll break down and they’ll think he’s the murderer, sure.”

“Perhaps he is. There’s the handkerchief, you know. And – oh, don’t bother your poor little tired brain over it, darling! Leave it to the detectives. Duane doesn’t amount to much, does he?”

“No. But Mr. Stone will, I’m sure of that.”

“And Harry Pinckney, what’s he doing?”

Avice looked embarrassed. “I had to snub him, Kane. He – he was – ”

“He fell in love with you! Oh, Avice, you heartbreaker! Who doesn’t adore you! Look out for this Stone!”

“Oh, he’s married. Almost a bridegroom, in fact. Most romantic affair, I believe. But you know, Kane, if you are freed by Leslie’s efforts, I’ve promised – ”

“You’ve promised me, my girl,” and Landon’s voice rang out exultantly, “promised me all your love and faith and trust, now and forever. Do you suppose for a minute, that Leslie Hoyt can take you from me? Never!”

But Avice only shook her head sadly. Kane was young and impetuous and hopeful. But Judge Hoyt was older and more experienced, and if he said Kane could be freed only by his efforts, Avice strongly believed it was so.

Avice went away, and it was not much later when Fleming Stone was admitted to an interview with Kane Landon. Still posing as Mr. Green, an old friend of the prisoner, admittance was granted him under the regular rules for visitors. But a disclosure of his real identity to the authorities secured for him a private session and, wasting no time, the detective began to talk earnestly of the murder and the impending trial.

Kane at first showed a spirit of truculence and answered curtly the remarks of his visitor. But seeing at once that Stone presupposed his innocence, Landon became friendly, and talked and listened with eagerness.

“My uncle and I wrote occasionally,” Kane said, “and his letters had been most friendly of late, and he had urged me to come back East to live. I was ready to do so, as soon as I had enough money to marry and settle down. Then the chance for a splendid mining investment turned up, and I lit out for New York, feeling sure I could put it to Uncle Rowland in such a way that he would give or lend me the money necessary. But he wouldn’t, and he was so harsh and unjust that I decided to wait a day or two before going to his house. So I went to Lindsay’s, an old chum of mine, and, as he was going away for a few days he lent me his diggings. But you know all this. Let us get to the things to be discussed.”

“To my mind,” said Stone, “the main clue is that handkerchief. Without a doubt it is Stryker’s, but Stryker never left it there. It is a plan to incriminate the old man. I’m sure of that. Now, who did it?”

“I can’t agree with you about that, entirely. It seems to me, that that handkerchief was in my uncle’s pocket when he was killed, and was used by the murderer and left there. I know my uncle’s careless habits, of old, and he was quite as likely to have the butler’s handkerchief in his pocket as his own. When I lived with him, he wore my cap or picked up my gloves quite unconsciously. It wasn’t exactly absentmindedness, but extreme carelessness in such matters. Why, I remember his going to church once, and at prayer time he shook out a clean, folded handkerchief from his pocket, and it was one of Avice’s! I drew her attention to it, and we both snickered right out in meeting. No, Mr. Stone, that handkerchief is Stryker’s, of course, but it’s no clue.”

“I didn’t know of this carelessness of Mr. Trowbridge; it does put a different light on the matter. Well, then, there’s the pencil picked up at the scene of the crime. The police have paid little, if any, attention to that, and it seems to me important. You don’t know, I suppose, as to the pencils your uncle used?”

“No; but they all said, – the office people and the home people both, – that Uncle Rowland used that make and letter always. So it was doubtless his.”

“I only saw it for a moment. I shall examine it more closely. But I observed it was sharpened with an automatic sharpener. Did you notice one on your uncle’s desk?”

“No, and I don’t believe he would have one. He was too old-fogy to use modern contraptions much. Maybe the murderer dropped it.”

“Maybe he did. It is often on such small things that great conclusions hinge. What do you think of that office boy?”

“Fibsy? He’s a case. A little fresh, perhaps, but a bright chap, and devoted to my uncle’s memory.”

“I don’t think he’s fresh, exactly. But I do think he’s bright, – exceptionally so, and I have asked him to help me – ”

“Fibsy! To help Fleming Stone! Excuse me if I seem amused.”

“Oh, I don’t mind your amusement. Now, here’s the case as it stands, Mr. Landon. You didn’t telephone to Mr. Trowbridge that afternoon at two, calling him ‘Uncle’ did you?”

“I did not.”

“And there are no other nephews?”

“None, that I know of.”

“Then, somebody did it to throw suspicion on you. There seems to be no getting away from that.”

“Quite right.”

“Again, if I am right about the handkerchief being a ‘planted’ clue, some one tried to throw suspicion on Stryker.”

“Yes.”

“Again, if the pencil was purposely left there, and it may have been, that’s another effort to mislead.”

“Well?”

“Well, if these ‘clues’ were arranged with such meticulous care and precision, it surely argues a clear, clever brain that planned them, and diverts our search from such criminals as thugs or highway robbers.”

“That’s all true, Mr. Stone, and I wonder our police didn’t see that point at once.”

“Police are a capable lot, but rarely subtle in their deductions. The obvious appeals to them, rather than the obscure. But that boy, Fibsy, has the brain of a thinking detective. With training and experience, he ought to develop into something remarkable. Now, I must be going. I fancy my time is up, and I have an appointment with young McGuire this afternoon.”

Fleming Stone went away, better pleased with Kane Landon than he had expected to be. Several people had told him of Landon’s perverseness and flippancy, and after seeing him, Stone had concluded that while Landon’s nature was irritable and his temper quick, he could be easily managed by any one who cared for him and understood him.

Meantime Judge Hoyt was calling on Avice, and was telling her, exultantly, that he had plans laid that augured success for his case.

“You’re going to do something wrong!” Avice exclaimed.

“Hush! Never put that in words! The walls have ears. If I do, Avice, you must never ask what I have done. My God, girl, isn’t it enough that I perjure my soul, jeopardize my reputation and forfeit my self-respect, for you, without having to bear your reproaches? Rest assured, it is only after failing in every honorable attempt, that I can bring myself to do – what you call something wrong.”

“Forgive me, Leslie,” and Avice was touched by the look of agony on the strong man’s face. “I do know you do it for me, and I will never reproach you. But you know, if I can accomplish Kane’s acquittal myself – ”

“But you can’t! How can you? Avice, you haven’t engaged Stone, have you?”

“Why, you told me not to,” said the girl, prevaricating purposely.

“That’s right,” and the judge took her words to mean denial, as she hoped he would. “There’s no use calling him in, for, dear, he is very clever, I am told, and if I do this thing, – this wrong,” the fine eyes clouded every time Hoyt referred to his projected plan, “Fleming Stone might discover it, – though Duane never will.”

“Then you’re afraid of Mr. Stone?”

“In that way, yes. If I do something secret to win our cause, – to win you, it must remain secret or be of no avail. If Stone were here and discovered my – my plan, – he would expose it, and I should be disgraced for life, – and our case would be lost.”

“You still think Kane guilty, then?”

“Avice! Who else is there to suspect? Where is any other possible way to look? And so, I must invent a suspect. I beg of you, my darling, do not impede or prevent my progress, – it is all for you. You asked of me what is practically an impossibility. If I achieve it, it will be at great, – at colossal cost. But I undertake it, for your sweet sake. Avice! Beloved! Can you imagine, have you the faintest idea of how I love you? Who else would sin for you? Do you know the impeccability of my past record? Do you know what it would mean to me to have the slightest smirch on my untarnished honor? Yet I chance this for you. I do not expect to be found out, but there is, of course, a risk. That risk I take, my glorious girl, for you. And I take it willingly, gladly, whatever the penalty, because – I love you.”

The last words, whispered, thrilled Avice to the soul. She did not love Judge Hoyt; her heart was bound up in Kane Landon, but this impassioned declaration, every word throbbing with truth, moved her, – as it must have moved any woman. She felt a guilty sensation at the thought of Fleming Stone’s connection with the case, but she was not willing to retract. It must go on. Kane must be exonerated, if possible, without Leslie’s help, and then she would be free to join her heart’s true love. And if Kane were freed by Judge Hoyt’s plans, – Avice shuddered to think of her promise. Well she knew that the judge would hold her to it, no matter how much Landon protested the contrary. Landon was determined, but his determination was a weak thing compared with the iron will of Judge Hoyt.

CHAPTER XXIII
IN KITO’S CARE

The case of “The People vs. Kane Landon” was before the court and jury. Few, if any, of the listening audience realized the great amount of time, thought and skill that had been expended in preparation or had any idea of the care with which the district attorney had framed his opening speech.

Whiting well knew the responsibility resting on the jury’s first impression of the case, and also their judgment of himself. He knew too, his jurors’ records, and he was alert and alive to all the effects of his short but comprehensive statement.

Judge Hoyt was warily on the defensive, and though Whiting had built up his case most carefully, Hoyt hoped to prove that the evidence was not crucial.

First came the details of the crime. Mysterious rather than revolting were the circumstances related of Rowland Trowbridge’s death.

Proceedings went on slowly, for the two lawyers were masters of their profession, and each foresaw and was prepared to evade the traps of the other.

Moreover the situation was difficult because of the lack of material. There were no star witnesses. The clues led only to conjecture and theory, and while facts were conceded, the inferences to be drawn from them were bitterly contested.

The two men eyed each other thoughtfully. Whiting, big and burly, with a stubborn jaw and belligerent air; Hoyt, tall and aristocratic, with the dominating manner of one accustomed to dictate terms.

When Whiting emphatically urged Landon’s motive, Hoyt assented, but added that since that alleged motive was merely to receive at once his legacy, any other beneficiary under the will must be admitted to have had the same.

Regarding the district attorney’s insistence on Landon’s opportunity, Hoyt agreed that the prisoner was in the woods at the time, but any one else might also have been there. And, moreover, the fact that the prisoner had voluntarily told of his presence there, was not a sign of a guilty conscience.

The quarrel between Landon and his uncle, Hoyt dismissed with the comment that that was the story of a boy who was an acknowledged prevaricator, and could not be taken into consideration.

“The evidence is vague, general and inconclusive,” he said; “It is not enough to condemn the prisoner, and indeed it in no instance connects the accused with crime. I myself knew Mr. Trowbridge well, and I knew he often used figurative language. It was entirely like him to say, ‘Cain killed me!’ meaning a reference to an unknown murderer. But it was utterly unlike him to say to the Swede, a perfect stranger, ‘Kane killed me,’ meaning his nephew. Why should he speak of Mr. Landon by his first name to a stranger? He never did any such thing! The similar sound of the two names is a mere coincidence, and must be regarded as such by all fair-minded people.”

Aside from the argument, Judge Hoyt was pinning his faith to his marvelously wide knowledge of the law governing every aspect of the matter in hand. He well knew that a prosecutor with a really clear case, may lose it because he has neglected to look up some points of law which may unexpectedly arise, and the defence was hoping for something of this sort.

Again, it is a fact, that juries are more likely to acquit in a murder trial than in case of other crimes. Unless the prisoner at the bar is of the depraved criminal class, a jury is inclined to give him every possible benefit of doubt.

And, knowing this, and knowing many other “tricks of his trade,” Judge Hoyt took advantage of every condition and every circumstance; and as the trial proceeded from day to day, the probabilities of the outcome vibrated from one side to the other largely in proportion to the oratorical eloquence of the two counsels.

Fleming Stone attended the trial only occasionally. He had his own agent there, reporting it for him, and he himself was busy untangling clues whose existence others were unaware of or had ignored.

On one particular afternoon, Stone had told Fibsy to meet him at his office at two o’clock, and the boy did not appear.

This was a most unusual thing, for Fibsy, working with Stone, had proved absolutely reliable in the matter of obeying orders.

After waiting fifteen minutes, Stone telephoned to the boy’s home.

“Why,” responded “Aunt Becky,” “Fibs went out an hour ago. Somebody telephoned for him, – I don’t know who, – and he flew right off. No, it must have been important, for he went off without his dessert.”

Like a flash, it came to Stone that there was something wrong.

But what it was, even his cleverness failed to fathom. He telephoned the Trowbridge house, Judge Hoyt’s office, the courtroom, and any place he could think of where there was a chance of finding Fibsy, but all without success. Then, setting detectives in search of the missing boy, Stone went on with his own work of drawing in his widespread net.

And Fibsy?

The telephone message had said that he was to come at once to the corner of Broadway and Thirty-second Street, where Mr. Stone would meet him in a taxicab.

Fibsy grabbed his cap and sped to the appointed place. There he found a waiting cab, whose driver nodded, and said, “Hop in.”

Fibsy hopped in, and found inside a Japanese boy apparently about his own age.

“All light,” the Japanese observed, with a stolid countenance. “Mr. Stoan, he tell me bling you. All light.”

Fibsy, though a little surprised, accepted it all, for Fleming Stone frequently sent for him in unexpected ways, and sent him on unexpected and strange errands.

The cab went quickly uptown, and turning into a cross street in the upper West Seventies, stopped before a rather fine-looking house.

“Get out,” said the Jap, briefly, and Fibsy obeyed. The house was not Mr. Stone’s, of that Fibsy was sure, but he was accustomed to obey orders, even through an emissary, and nothing had ever gone wrong by so doing.

The Japanese produced a latch-key, dismissed the cab, and the two went into the house.

“Mr. Stoan, he upstairs,” the taciturn guide vouchsafed, leading the way.

Fibsy followed, up two flights, and was ushered into a large room, in the location known as “the middle room”; that is, it was between the front and back chambers, and had no outside window, save on a small airshaft.

A little curious, but in no way alarmed, he entered, and the Jap followed him, and turned on an electric switch. By this illumination, Fibsy discovered that he was in a bedroom, a fairly well-appointed and tidily kept chamber, apparently in the abode of the well-to-do.

By this time, and perhaps more because of the expression on his companion’s face, than the situation itself, Fibsy felt a slight thrill of doubt.

“Where am I?” he said, pleasantly. “Where’s Mr. Stone?”

“No Mr. Stoan here,” and the Japanese grinned. “You fall in tlap. Hee, hee! You fall eas’ly! Well, Mr. Flibsy, you here to stay.”

“To stay! Trap! Whaddye mean, you yellow sneak? Lemme out this minute, or I’ll show you who’s who wit’ the wallop! I’ll fuss up that map o’ yourn till your own grandmother wouldn’t know it!”

“Aexcuse me, Mr. Flibsy, you don’ say nawthin’ ’bout my ancestors! They sacred to Jap’nese. You be p’lite or I thing I quarrel with you.”

“Oh, you thing you will, do you? Now, stop this nonsense, and – ”

“Aexcuse me. This not non-senze. Behole! You here, – here you stay. I bed you stay!” and the Japanese with low, mocking bow, went out at the door and began to draw it to after him.

“Here, you, come back here!” and Fibsy’s quick perceptions took in the fact that he had been trapped by some one, and that he was about to be locked in. “Come back, what’s-your-name?”

“My name Kito, an’ I ask you be rev’ren ’bout my august ancestors.”

“Bother your ancestors! I mean – bless ’em!” for Kito’s eyes narrowed at the first word. “Now, you come back a minute, and put me wise to this song and dance. What house is this?”

“My master’s.”

“And you’re his valet? cook? head stuff? what?”

“His ver’ humble servant,” and Kito bowed low. “An’ at his orders, I mus’ log you in. Goo’ by.”

“No, you don’t!” Fibsy sprang at the Japanese and fully expected to land his clenched fist at its destination, when instead, he gave a shriek of pain, as Kito deftly caught the descending arm and with a peculiarly dextrous twist, almost, – it seemed to Fibsy, – broke it.

“I had a hunch I was pretty good,” the injured one said, ruefully, “but I hand it to you! Show me how, will you, It’s that thing they call juicy jitsoo, ain’t it?”

“Jiu jitsu, yaes. Now you know who goin’ be who? eh? What you thing?”

“I think you’re a wonder, an’ you gotter crack me wise to that some time, but not now. Now I’m mainly int’rested in gettin’ outa here.”

“Yaes?” And the Japanese looked mildly amused.

This made Fibsy serious. “Say,” he said, without bluster, for Kito was gazing at him steadily, “tell a feller a few things, can’t you? Who is you master?”

“I thing I not say it good. This United States names too much for me. So I carry card, this-away.” Kito drew from his pocket a worn card and held it out for inspection.

“Mr. James Brent Auchincloss,” it read.

“Huh,” said Fibsy, “don’t wonder it’s too much for you, son. But looky here, you’ve got in wrong, somehow. I don’t know Mr. Autchincloss, myself. Lemme go, there’s a pal, – an’ I’ll call it square.”

“Aexcuse; my orders to log you in,” and this time, Kito slid out of the door, and the next instant Fibsy heard the key grate in the lock.

First he gave a long whistle, then he blinked his eyes several times, and then he set to work, systematically, to investigate his prison.

A few quick glances showed him he was in a woman’s room, and one recently occupied. There were hairpins on the dresser and a pair of curling tongs beside them. The furniture was of black walnut, old-fashioned but of good workmanship. The bed was neatly made up, and the closet, into which Fibsy looked, was empty, save for a pair of woman’s shoes and an old skirt or two.

There was one other door, and pulling it open, the boy found it led to a bathroom, plain and clean, not at all luxuriously appointed.

He put his head out of the bathroom window. There was a sheer drop of three stories to the ground. This was on the same airshaft as the bedroom window gave on. The windows on the other side of the shaft were in the next house, and were all with closely drawn shades.

“Gee!” thought Fibsy, “I must set me bean to woikin’ – ”

In critical moments, Fibsy, even in thought, reverted to his street slang, though he was honestly trying to break himself of the habit.

“I’m in a swell house,” he assured himself, “an’ this is the woik-goil’s room. Folks all gone to the country, an’ neighbors all gone, too. Oh, I’m on. Dis ain’t no mistake, I’m kidnapped, – that’s what’s come my way! Now, who does it?”

But though he had the whole afternoon to put uninterrupted thought on that question, it remained unanswered. He cudgeled his brain to remember any one by the name of Auchincloss, without success. He pondered deeply over the possible reasons any one could have for incarcerating him in this way, but could think of none. He returned at last to his theory of mistaken identity, and concluded that he had been mistaken for some one else.

Though with a subconsciousness of its futility, he banged on the door, and he hung out of the window and yelled, and he stamped and pounded and banged in every way he could think of, without getting the least response of any sort.

The awful thought struck him that he was to be left here to starve to death, and this so awed him that he sat perfectly still for two minutes, and then began to make a racket with redoubled vigor.

At last, worn out by mental and physical exertion, he threw himself on the bed and dropped into fitful slumber.

He was roused by the opening door, and beheld the Japanese enter with a tray of food.

“Nixy on the starvation stunt, then,” he cried, joyously. “Why, I say Kito, if you don’t come across with ’most as good eats as me Aunt Becky, an’ that’s goin’ some!”

Kito stood, with folded arms, watching his prisoner’s appetite assert itself. Then he said, “You make ’nother piece racket like those, an’ I break your honorable arm.”

“You will!” And for a moment, Fibsy sprang to action. Then remembering the skill of his foe, he fell into dejection again.

“Aw, now Kite,” he began, in a conciliatory tone, “let’s chew this over, – me’n you. There’s some mistake, you know.”

“Aexcuse, no mis-take. You here to stay. You can’t get aout. You holler an’ bang-bang, I break your arm. You jump out window, you break your leg. So.”

“Then I’m to stay here and be mousy-quiet?”

“Yes, so as a mice.”

“Yes, I will! Say, Kite, be a sport. I’ll make it up to you, if you’ll just lead me to a telephone, an’ let me fix up this here mistake. I don’t know any Auchincloss – ”

“No mis-take. My honorable master never make mis-take.”

“Oh, don’t he? Well, tell me this. How long do I live here – on the house?”

“In the house?” corrected Kito gravely. “I not know. Two, t’ree, fo’ weeks’ mebbe more.”

“Mebbe nothing!” roared the irate Fibsy. “Stay here all that time! Why, you yellow-gilled crab – ”

Fibsy paused, for the Japanese merely lifted his hand and flexed his long yellow fingers in a suggestive way, that was decidedly unpleasant.

“There, there, I didn’t mean anything. Oh, well, if you wanta be fussy!”

Fibsy saw at once the utter uselessness of trying to threaten, cajole or reason with the Oriental. Though he looked no older than the boy, he was a man, and one skilled in his country’s athletic and wrestling methods.

Without further words, Kito waited for Fibsy to finish his supper, and then took away the tray, locking his prisoner in the room.

This went on for three whole days. Fibsy was comfortably housed, all his physical wants provided for, and Kito even brought him a pile of old magazines to read, but no further information was given him as to the reason for his imprisonment.

By the fourth day the nervous strain had begun to tell on the captive boy. No amount of thinking could reveal the reason of his plight, and no theory account for it. Hours at a time he tried to escape or tried to plan some means that might lead to freedom, but there was no chance for ingenious attempt, or possibility of conquering or eluding Kito.