Central Park, even with its horde of transitory inhabitants, looked more than ever like home to Peter Pape this late afternoon. Feeling the necessity of a private conclusion or two, he loped Polkadot into what he hoped would prove the less used path. His thoughts, like the pinto’s hoof-beats, were of a rather violent, not to say exclamatory sort.

Three whole days since he had met her, and not once since had he seen her! Considering the emphasis with which he had interpolated himself into her acquaintance that opera evening, the length of the unbroken after-pause seemed incredible. Here was he, lonelier than before receipt of the advices of ’Donis Moore, in that now he knew what earlier he only had suspected he was missing.

He felt as forlorn as looked a bent old woman who stood beneath the trail-side shade, leaning against a tree. Out of date was her nondescript bonnet of the poke persuasion, rusty her black silk dress, ineffectual her attitude. Too primitive for the Society into which he had cantered must be his Far-West methods, since rusted over were his hopes and resultless his to-day.

Sight of a sheep herd browsing over “The Green” sufficiently surprised and pleased his pastoral eye as to brighten temporarily his mood. He polkaed Dot down to a walk.

A flock of Dorsets in the Great Garden of New York Town! More than a hundred horned heads he estimated them, not counting the wobbly-legged lambs trailing the ewes. Although oil was Pape’s bonanza, cattle was his stock in trade, yet he felt none of the cowman’s usual aversion for the wearers of fleece. He was, as a matter of fact, a “mixed” rancher, with sheep of his own on the Hellroaring reaches. He rejoiced that these animals, at least, could enjoy the company of their kind and graze to their taste. Indeed, a more satisfactory pasture could not have been found for them, except for the fact that an over-used auto-road “unfenced” that side of it next the bridle path. The condition, precarious both for the sheep and the drivers of cars, hung heavily in his consideration until he caught sight of the dog that was on guard.

“What d’you think of that, horse-alive?” he made demand of Polkadot. “A police hound instead of a collie—a Belgian, at that—close-herding the woollies?”

When one of the fattest of the mutton-heads waddled into the auto-greased roadway in an ambitious expedition toward the grass-tufted border along the path, Pape pulled his painted pony to a stop and watched with active interest.

“Quick, Kicko, round her up!”

The shouted command came from the flock-master, appearing at a run around the far side of the band.

Unmistakable as the breed of the dog was the intelligence of his work. With warning, staccato yelps he dashed from among the more discreet of his charges, cut off the stray from her goal, snatched her by a mouthful of wool out of the path of a speeding car, then nipped her into a return rush to the safety of The Green.

“Great work, Kicko! Here, boy, I want to shake!”

Pape, enthusiastic over the best bit of herding he ever had seen done under adverse circumstances, rode toward the dog hero, swung out of the saddle and met him more than halfway in the paw-shaking, ear-scratching formalities that followed.

The master, a stout, middle-aged, uniformed expert, showed himself as pleased with the introduction as his canine assistant. He gave his name as Tom Hoey of the Sheepfold, the gabled roof of which could be plainly seen a short distance south and nearer the park wall. Willingly enough he contributed to the information fund of the easy-going stranger.

Yes, Kicko was a police dog, the gift of a returned army captain and the only herder of his breed in captivity. The park collie, in active service for years, had been about ready for retirement at the time of the foreigner’s arrival. A short chain attached to the swivel collars on the necks of both had enabled the old Scot to teach the young Belgian the trade of disciplining woolly quadrupeds instead of two-legged humans.

“I, for one, don’t hope to meet a better policer in this world and I sure don’t expect to in the next,” the owner boasted. “He’s got a whole repertory of tricks that he’s worked out for his own amusement, besides knowing by heart all the dog A-B-C’s, such as shaking hands, speaking and fetching things. One of the most useful things he does is going for my lunch noontimes. He brings it nice and hot in a tin pail from my house by the wall yonder. There’s just one trouble about him, though—eh, old side Kick? If he meets up with one of the many friends he’s made, or even if he takes a special shine to somebody new—Kicko’s one fault is his sociability—he’ll like as not present my meal to some one that ain’t half as hungry or as entitled to it as I.”

“We’ll meet again.”

So Pape assured the shepherd pair on continuing his ride. He wished that all the folks he met were as friendly and as easy to understand as they. By comparison, for instance, each and every member of that dressed-up party of Gothamites into whose midst he had insisted himself the other night seemed doubly complex.

His attitude had been plain as day; theirs, both separately and as a whole, incomprehensible. And since that evening, the conduct of all had been as misleading as his had been direct. This was the afternoon of the third ineffectual after day. It was all right for handsome fellows like the traffic cop to advise him to do something that would “make ’em take notice.” He had done it—done it so well that they had noticed him enough to decide not to notice him. To him the situation seemed to call for some deed even more noticeable. Again, what? Leaving the pace to the piebald, he brisked along in review.

At the enthusiastic hour of six a.m. that morning after sighting Society, he had risen and rigged himself to do and dare on the high-seas of adventure. Any idea of adhering to the original “slow and steady” stipulation of his experiment not already quashed by first sight and sound of Miss Lauderdale must have been ruled out by sub-consciousness during his brief sleep. Slow and steady would have been proper enough in almost any other conceivable case of discovering whether a woman was the woman. But as applied to Jane, any method other than gun-fire quick seemed somehow a reflection on her. An excellent rule, no doubt—slow and steady. She, however, was super-excellent—an exception to any rule.

Realization that he was essaying rather an early start had struck him as he steered a course through Mr. ——or Mrs. Astor’s fleet of scrub ladies, tugging at their brush anchors over the seas of Jersey-made marble, evidently about ready to call it a night’s voyage. He had left his berth without any call, as six a.m. long had been and doubtless long would remain his hour for setting sail into the whitecaps of each new day.

So transformed was The Way outside that he scarcely could recall its nocturnal whiteness or gayety. Strict business ruled it. Luggage-laden taxis sped toward or from the ports of early trains. Surface cars demanded blatantly, if unnecessarily, the right o’ way. Motor trucks groaned hither and yon with their miseries of dripping ice, jangling milk cans, bread, vegetables—what not. Only the pavements were empty at that hour. Blocks and blocks of them stretched out, practically uncontested.

A moment he “lay-to” for an upward survey of the greeting he had bought from himself to himself, which last evening had seemed the howdy-doo of Destiny. It wasn’t so conspicuous in daytime with the lights off, although the contractor had been clever about blocking in behind the incandescents so that the letters within the bouquet border still were legible. Even had they not been, he shouldn’t have felt disappointed. To every electric sign its night, as to every dog his day! Wasn’t he now the gayest dog that ever believed in signs? And wasn’t this to be his day?

More often than not breakfast to Pape was a matter of bacon, coffee and buckwheat cakes. Although the more expensive restaurants along The Way were, like the lobby of his hotel, still in process of being scrubbed out, he soon found a chop-house ready to “stack” for him. At table he ate rather abstractedly, his mind and most of his fingers engaged with the sheaf of morning papers collected during his walk.

Yes, the curiosity of reportorial minds to the number of three had been sufficiently stirred by the mystery of the new sign to give it mention. One touched the subject only to drop it, frankly suspicious of some new advertising insult. Another treated it in jocular vein, with that grateful spur-of-the-moment wit which occasionally enlivens columns thrown together under such stress of time. A third declared its ignorance of the whyfore of Why-Not Pape, but had no objection to his, her or its being welcomed to the city. The question was raised, however, of just what awful thing W. N. Pape could have committed in his past to need the moral support of so rare and roseate a reassurance.

When the last drop of coffee had washed down the last scrap of wheat-cake, the man from Montana further treated himself to a series of chuckles. Was the joke on him or on the Big Town? Which or whether, it was catching on. And there was one small assortment of A1 New Yorkers who would enjoy the joke with him—who knew the kingdom, gender, case-number and several other etceteras of Why-Not Pape. That is, they would enjoy it if not too suspicious of him. Just about how suspicious they were was the next thing he needed to know.

That supper party at the Sturgis house had run its courses smoothly enough, at least on the surface. But their see-you-again-soons had a haziness which he could not break through. It is true that Irene had met the mention of his favorite pastime of horse-backing in the park with a far from hazy hint that they “co-ride.” But that possibility he had preferred to leave vague. He had “pulled out” creditably, he hoped—with all the good-form he remembered having been taught or told about.

The evening’s paramount issue had increased in importance overnight—that matter of a safe robbed of unnamed loot. What could the stolen treasure be—of a size that could be hidden in a snuff-box, yet so valuable that its loss was tragedy?

Jane Lauderdale was a number of wonderful things. Was she wonderfully unreasonable or more wonderfully distrustful of him? There was a chance that overnight she had had one of those changes of mind said to be the pet prerogative of the fair. Just perhaps she now would be willing to accept the service he had offered—service which he meant should be hers whether she wished it or not.

The next impending question regarded the hour at which young ladies got up of a morning in this woman’s town. This he put to the sleepy-eyed blond cashier of the restaurant.

“You trying to kid me, customer?” was her cautious reply. “If no, it depends upon where said lady lives. Fifth Avenue in the Sixties? Ain’t you flapping kinda high? I’d say anywheres from ten A.M. to twelve noon. Why not jingle up her maid and ask? Oh, you’re welcome and to spare. Keep the change.”

Before entering the nearest cigar store to act on this suggestion, Pape remembered that last night the Sturgis’ phone had been declared useless—its wires cut. He called for the repair department of the company. The voice with a rather dubious “smile” at the other end of the line agreed to enquire just when the number would be restored to service.

“Say, Useless,” came the answer in a moment, “that line’s in order. Hasn’t been out. I just got an O. K. over it. You must have got wrong information from one of our centrals. Excuse, please.”

He would have “excused” with more pleasure if his simple question had not started a series of others more involved. How did a ’phone fallacy fit into the robbery plot? Why had the wheezy butler, Jasper, been sent afoot to the nearest police station if the wires had not been cut? Did Jane know or did she not that the line was in order when she stopped him in his attempt to call Headquarters?

He decided not to “jingle her maid” at once but to await the hour first suggested by the “blond” cashier before asking answers. Jane Lauderdale looked the kind of girl who would have arisen by ten a.m. At any rate, he would give her benefit of doubt. But no mental preparation during the interim, as to what tack her temper might take, in any way prepared him for that morning’s second shock.

Jasper answered—there was no mistaking his voice. Pape followed the announcement of his name with a comment over the speed with which the telephone had been fixed, to which the born butler replied smoothly, impersonally, non-committally.

“Yes, Mr. Pape. The Telephone Company is exceedingly efficient, sir.”

The request for speech with Miss Lauderdale was met with equal competence.

“The family is all out. They left early this morning for the country, sir, to seek a few days of peace and quiet.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, Mr. Pape, all of them.”

“What’s their address?”

“They left no address. They never do, sir, when they go for peace and quiet. Good day, sir.”

With which, actually, that sebacious, ostentatious, fallacious importation had hung up on him.

To Pape’s daily inquiries since Jasper had replied with consistent politeness, if with consistent lack of information. The Westerner hated him for his very perfection in his part; was inclined to the belief that America was no place for an intelligence limited to being a butler.

What about his—Why-Not’s—peace and quiet? Wasn’t he entitled to any such? Indignation had flung with him out of the booth that first morning; had matched his pace since; was riding with him to-day.

In the interval Pape had made efforts other than over the Sturgis telephone to locate geographically the rural resting-place mentioned all too vaguely by Jasper. His first visit to that mountainous district known to the Metropolitan Police as “below the dead-line” was not in the squaring of certain overdue accounts of his own which had been the basic impulse of his Eastern exile, but in the hope of locating the other members of that Zaza box-party.

In a cloud-piercer near the corner of William and Wall Streets he found the office suite occupied by ex-Judge Samuel Allen and associated attorneys, evidently an affiliation of standing “at the bar”—a phrase which, since Volstead, is no longer misunderstood as meaning anything but “in the Law.” He gained admittance into the reception room, but, so far as achieving audience with the head of the firm, the legal lair proved more impregnable than the ranger-guarded Yellowstone to a tusk-hunter.

The “line-fence” was ridden by thick-rouged, thin-bloused office girls who doubtless had been instructed that all unexpected callers were suspicious characters and to be treated accordingly. Once the judge was in court, which court no one seemed to know. Pape left his name. On a second visit he was allowed to “dig his spurs” into chair rungs most of an afternoon under the hopeful glances of the “dolls,” while awaiting the end of an alleged conference, only to be told with none-too-regretful apologies that Mr. Allen, having been called to attend the directors of the Hardened Steel Corporation, had departed without knowing that Mr. Pape awaited him. A third time——

But it is enough—was more than enough for him—that he never broke through the barrier of too-red lips with their too-patent, stock lies; never caught even a long-distance glimpse of the jurist of small person and large personality.

Failure to find the likeable Mills Harford came more quickly and saved a deal of time. “Harfy’s” trail showed plainly in the City Directory and his “ranch” proved to be another of those “places of business” where everything but business was attended, a real-estate office in one of the block-square structures that surround the Grand Central Terminal. Mr. Harford had departed on a yachting trip around Long Island, Pape was told—a statement which he had no cause to doubt.

Although Peter Pape had signaled Broadway in general with what he liked to call the “high sign,” his desire for adventure had particularized. He could not be satisfied to go on to a next, with the first only begun. He finished what he started, unless for some reason stronger than his will.

More than by the beauty of Jane Lauderdale’s face, he was haunted by its look of fear. The little drama at the Sturgis house that night could not have been staged for benefit of himself, whose presence there was purely accidental. Its unaccountable denouement had terrorized the aunt as well as niece. Much more was unexplained than the nature of the stolen treasure and the cause of that false report anent the severed telephone wires.

To epitomize the present state of mind of Why-Not Pape, “making ’em notice him” had boiled down into one concentrated demand that the high-strung girl whom he had self-selected and later approved by instinct instead of rule—that Jane Lauderdale should notice his readiness to do or die in her service.

He had the will. Whither was the way?

Nights and days had passed since he had pressed that thrilling kiss of allegiance upon her finger-tips. Yet here was he strolling aimlessly down The Way, after having stabled Polkadot for an equine feast au fait and himself dined at a restaurant near Columbus Circle. The bright lights could have no allurement for him. Signs were dull indeed that one didn’t wish to follow.

The wish formed in his mind for some friend with whom to talk. Not that he was given to confidence with men or cared to engage any feminine ear, save one. But he would have appreciated a word or look of simple sympathy—a moment of companionship that he knew to be genuine with——

He turned squarely about and started back the way he had come. The very sort of friend he needed!

Kicko would be off duty by now and likely as glad as he to improve their acquaintance, so pleasantly begun. If Shepherd Tom was about they could smoke and talk sheep. There was a lot about woollies these B’way folk didn’t know—that, for instance, they could take care of themselves for eight months of the year and cost only seven cents a day for the other four. Yes, he and Tom Hoey could talk sheep at the city’s Fold. He would seek that “peace and quiet” which he hoped Jane had found in the deepening shade of the only part of Manhattan that at all resembled his West; was more likely to locate it there than along the avenue of amperes and kilowatts.

His ambition seemed to be shared before announced. Scarcely had he turned into the roadway leading from Central Park West to the Sheepfold when he met the police dog coming out. All that he had hoped for was Kicko’s greeting. The more conveniently to vent his feelings, the astute, sharp-featured Belgian placed upon the ground the small tin bucket which he was carrying, evidently the lunch pail of his favorite “trick.” Soon picking it up, however, he issued a straight-tailed invitation to “come along.” Pape realized that he had some definite objective—probably was taking supper instead of lunch to Shepherd Tom. He accepted.

Many a lead had the whys and why-nots of Peter Pape’s nature forced him to follow, but never so interestedly had he followed the lead of a dog. And Kicko showed that he appreciated the confidence. He would dash ahead; would stop and look back; would set down his precious pail, most times merely to yap encouragement, twice to return to his new friend and urge him on by licking his hand.

When they left the beaten path for the natural park and approached a hummock marked by rocks and a group of poplars whose artistic setting Pape had admired in passing earlier that afternoon, the police dog’s excitement grew. Beside a dark mass, hunched-over close to the ground, Kicko dropped the bucket with a final yelp of accomplishment.

At once the dark mass straightened into human shape. Pape stopped and stared. Almost at once he recognized the poke-bonneted old lady with whose forlorn appearance he had compared his own state. Then she had stood leaning against a tree at the foot of the hill. Now she looked to have been digging in the woodsy earth. A considerable mound of soil lay beside the hole over which she had crouched and she brandished a trowel against Kicko’s exuberant importunities. Her back was toward Pape.

As he hesitated over whether to advance or face about, disliking both to startle her and to be caught in what might seem the retreat of a spy, he overheard what she was saying to the dog. He shivered from an odd sensation, not like either cold or heat, that passed up his spinal column and into his neck.

“No, you don’t, you wriggly wretch! I know perfectly well what you’ve got in that bucket of yours this time of day—nothing but the saved-up old bones that they don’t want you to bury in the flower-beds about the Sheepfold.”

When Kicko, as if acknowledging himself caught, seized the handle of his pail and shook it toward her appealingly, she took off the lid and laughed aloud at his ruse. In the regardless embrace which she threw around his scraggy neck, she spilled what showed to be a collection of more or less aged bones.

“Just because you’re so attractive, I’ll maybe let you have your way,” she informed him seriously as though addressing a human. “If I don’t find what I’m after, you may bury your precious debris as I scoop back the dirt. But you’ll have to wait until I— Back, now! I tell you, you’ve got to wait until I’m sure this isn’t the place where——”

Pape didn’t stand still longer. Her voice—sweet, strong, familiar—lured him. He forgot his question to advance or retreat. He advanced—and rapidly. By the time he reached her he had outstrode all his consideration for her age and forlorn state. His hurry made him rough. He stooped over the lowered poke bonnet; unclasped the two arms from about Kicko’s neck; literally, jerked the woman to her feet.

Well proportioned, for so old and ill-clad a lady, did she show to be as she sprang back from him, surprised into height, straightness and lissome lines. The face within the scoop of the bonnet was pale from passion—surprise, anger, fear—or perhaps all three. She was——

“Jane!” he exclaimed.

“You!” cried she.

He stared at her, his tongue too crowded with demands to speak any one of them. He continued to stare as she fell back to her knees and, with her trowel, refilled the hole she had dug. Before he realized what she was about, she had picked up a pile of wilted plants that lay nearby; had down-doubled her tallness, straightness and lissomeness into her former old-lady lines; with a rapid, shuffling walk, had started down and around the hummock.

“Just a minute, Miss Lauderdale,” he called. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Can’t we have a word or two or three?”

She did not answer, did not turn—only hurried away from him the faster. He set out after her; recrossed the bridle path; entered the deepening shadows toward the heart of the park.

Kicko, who had shown in his whines a spirit torn by regret to forsake either his bones or his friends, now caught up with Pape, briefly sniffed his hand, then trotted after the bent, dingy, scuttling figure merging into the gloom beyond.

The dog’s appeal she heeded, but with a well-aimed stone.

“Go back,” she ordered him. “Don’t you dare follow me. If you do—if anybody follows me—I’ll find a policeman and get you both arrested for annoying me.”

Kicko, tail between legs, skulked back in the general direction of his treasure pile.

Pape, too, heeded to some extent her warning, evidently meant more for him than the dog. But, although he slackened his pace, he did not turn or skulk. There were reasons a-plenty why he felt justified in pursuit.