That night at dinner I asked Hiram how much he knew about gasoline engines, and he looked up at me sharply.

"Not very much; very little, in fact. The Gold-Beater gave me a car once—a pretty good one—and I was learning about motors fairly fast when something happened. I knew motors needed water, oil and gasoline, and that when I did certain things it went, and sometimes it moved pretty fast. That was the trouble—I met a bigger car and we both went over in a man's front yard. I lost two wheels and other things—I never saw it again. The Gold-Beater and the insurance company settled somehow.

"Do you know," he continued after a pause, "I don't blame the Gold-Beater much—two thousand was my share for putting an innocent pedestrian in the park on the bad side—I wonder he didn't get the marble heart sooner." As he said this his lips curled with self-criticism.

"How soon will you have the motor ready to start? I am going to be very busy to-morrow. Can you and the captain manage to start it alone?"

"To-morrow at noon we will have everything ready for a try-out and if I don't feel safe we will not attempt to start without you. Don't want to take any chances; there's too much at stake," he insisted with rare judgment.

"Everything is fair in love and war," is the libertine's comfort in the case of a love contest—and in war it depends on the kind of an enemy we have. In this war any means of obtaining evidence against our enemy was justified. That was my firm belief. That night Becker & Co.'s office was entered as planned and his safe opened. While there was plenty of evidence that he was trading illicitly and with the enemy, I was disappointed in finding no evidence of his thieving propensity, except a letter he had received that day from the captain of a Swedish ship, Sparticide, then in port, who in poor English explained that he had "received the sample and thought it would do, though the price was altogether too high. If he would pack in half barrels and deliver as suggested, he would take the lot for cash, delivered alongside."

This letter was carefully copied and replaced.

When I reached home just before daylight, Hiram, Jr., was fast asleep, but when I awakened later in the day he had gone.

I spent the greater part of the morning getting the five bales of waste paper that had been unloaded from Becker's boat on the steamship docks, into a private fireproof room in the storage warehouse where we had our barrel of "steel filings" stored, and secured an affidavit from the steamship company that they were received from Becker & Co.

When I found leisure to examine them, I drew samples from each bale and carefully estimated the number, finding they checked up with the amount of filled sausage cartons stolen from the car.

Before leaving the warehouse I had our barrel put into the same room and secured it with a special Government padlock. Recent correspondence had developed that it contained a very rare German aniline dye, which American manufacturers had as yet been unable to produce, and offers for it had risen to such a fabulous sum I was afraid to tell Hiram about it for the present.

When I reached my office, my clerk, Miss Bascom, was out to luncheon, but I had not been there long before Superintendent Kitchell came in and formally introduced Mr. Hiram Strong, Sr., whom he had mentioned as being in transit over the system in his private car, and asked me to extend any possible courtesy, after which he bowed himself out obsequiously.

I knew I was in the presence of a man. He was tall and his full chest and very broad shoulders impressed me as they had impressed Hiram. His hair was iron gray and his very hat seemed to be made to order for him. His eyes appeared to penetrate without effort the object on which they turned, and one knew instinctively that he could and would note any discrepancy between what a person thought and what he uttered.

I saw at once how Hiram, Jr., had come by his nose piece, also his fine, clear skin and chiseled mouth.

Superintendent Kitchell, contrary to his boast, had told him all he knew about Hiram, Jr. He did not seem to want to hear more from me, but did want some information about getting down the river to the Hunting Club, where he was going to shoot ducks.

"I left New York supposing I could dispense with my secretary for a few weeks anyhow, but in that I am disappointed. Would it be too much trouble to obtain a stenographer to write some letters for me?"

Hiram Strong, Sr., like his son, was one to whom anything within reason could not be refused.

"Such talent is very scarce in New Orleans now, but if you can manage with my clerk, Miss Bascom, who is fairly efficient, you are welcome to her services—if she does not object," was the only thing I could say.

"I think she will do; in fact, almost any one," he assured me.

But somehow I felt that I was doing the wrong thing, for it suddenly occurred to me that Miss Bascom's attitude or position was so clouded and mysterious that, until I knew more, I should not trust her with anything important. But Hiram Strong, Sr., was not a man to be refused.

When Miss Bascom came in I introduced her and was about to explain what was wanted, when I stopped in amazement. The moment I mentioned the name "Mr. Strong" her face became white as marble, she raised her hand as though to advance and greet him, but it fell and she stood as though petrified, while I explained what he desired.

"I—I hope I will be able to serve you," she managed to say, while she gazed fixedly at him. I could not guess whether it was fear or other excitement.

"My work is simple correspondence, and I am sure you will be able to manage it," he replied assuringly, and I was not certain whether he was admiring her quail-like figure and unusually pretty face, or, like myself, was trying to divine the unusual excitement under the light bronze hair.

"I will do my best," she managed to say, beginning to edge away toward her desk by the window.

"Would it be asking too much for you to come out to the car? It is just under the train shed."

"Not at all, with Mr. Taylor's permission," she replied quickly, in a more natural tone. I nodded approval without looking at her, but did not relax my endeavor to see if Hiram Strong, Sr., had missed anything and decided he had not. He was not of that sort.

She went to her desk, obtained notebook and pencils, and stood expectantly looking out of the window as though steeling herself for an ordeal.

"I will undoubtedly see you again before I go, Mr. Taylor—I hope I will not greatly inconvenience you by taking away your clerk," he added suavely, going to the door and opening it as a sign for her to go with him.

"Anything more I can do for you will be a pleasure, Mr. Strong," I said, meeting his eye and getting a full message from him.

After they were gone I remained at my desk endeavoring to reach a logical conclusion as to the attitude of this girl, who, at that moment, I was ready to pronounce "infernal," probably because she had so far baffled me. It is true I had not given her any serious attention; perhaps I should have done so. I reviewed in my mind her traffic with Becker and the chief clerk, Burrell, and the fact that I was quite positive she was the author of the anonymous notes to Hiram. I decided to put a rod in pickle for her, at once.

I asked that her movements be accounted for every hour, and something positive be dug up concerning her antecedents, as soon as I reached the Department office, which precaution was rewarded sooner than expected.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in securing an auxiliary gasoline tank and an air-compressor, which Hiram, Jr., had said he must have to complete his running outfit.

"Old man," he began, as soon as he came in that evening, looking as dirty and disreputable as a longshoreman, "we have a dandy outfit—the captain says we can run away from anything. You've got the tank and air-pump? Fine, old man, we will soon kill off Becker and the whole crowd. All we need now is that saw-mill in the 'Dead Hoss' warehouse, and we are ready." He finished with great enthusiasm, stripping his upper body for a complete clean-up before eating dinner.

"Did you start the engine, Hiram?"

"No, but we are all ready. The captain wanted to, but I thought we'd better wait for you. You've got to go out there the first thing in the morning,—you can do that, can't you?"

"Yes, maybe—but don't you think we had better give it a pretty good try-out before we put anything more into her?—she might prove a flivver."

"Never on your life—she's going to run like a wolf—but maybe you are right about giving her a good trial—suppose we bring her around into the river?—that ought to be trial enough," he concluded, coming close and displaying a wonderfully well developed torso that with age would be as broad as his father's, which I had been admiring but a short time before. For a moment I speculated on how he would feel if he knew that his father was in New Orleans at that moment and that I had been talking with him.

"Wake up, Ben; you seem to be dreaming. Did you hear what I said?" he insisted, making me dodge to escape a whack on the back.

"I believe you said it was over two hundred miles through Ponchertrain around into the river?"

"Yes, over two hundred miles by water, but by land, right through the city, only about a mile. But we've got to get into the river."

"Yes, if she will go two hundred miles she will go any distance."

"All right; I'm going to pack up to-night and move aboard to stay until Becker and his crew are all in limbo headed for the penitentiary—do you hear me, Ben?"

I heard what he said, but was lost in considering plans which at that moment required radical change, and must be done with tact and judgment.

Hiram became thoughtful and remained so throughout dinner, and as soon as we returned he began, without further comment, to get his belongings together and ready for transfer to the Fearsome, fully convinced that his abode there would last for a long time.

I remained in the attitude of the "immortal," who waited for something to turn up, and I did not have long to wait.

A messenger came with two rather startling bits of information; the Sparticide, the Swedish ship, had asked for her papers and wanted to clear at five the next morning, and the more mystifying knowledge—even to me—that my clerk, Miss Bascom, had arrived at that moment at the St. Charles hotel and was dining there with a distinguished stranger. Would I also check up the stranger?

Both situations needed immediate attention and I could not be in two places at the same time. I called Hiram, Jr., from the room where he was busily packing.

"Hiram, come here and sit down long enough for me to funnel a bit of instruction into your think tank," said I, recalling that I had not mentioned the Sparticide matter to him.

He came and sat down in front of me, the corners of his mouth slightly elevated, folded his hands in front of him and waited in a slightly humorous and bored attitude for some inkling of what he was about to draw.

"Hiram, a Swedish ship, bound for Stockholm, is in the stream on the other side, just below Algiers, and is asking to be cleared to-morrow morning at five. It is thought she has, or will have to-night, a considerable quantity of Becker & Co.'s product on board. Foodstuffs of any sort to Sweden are forbidden, and if taken are contraband. His clearance papers are blocked until we are satisfied. Principally, what we want now is a liberal sample of what they take aboard from Becker. You will be there in an unofficial capacity, so use discretion, but get the samples. Here is a copy of the captain's letter closing the deal."

I had not half finished when his eyes began to glitter and dance as though they might jump from their sockets, and I had barely completed my instructions when he grabbed the letter, threw on his coat and bounded down the stairs three steps at a time.