HAD Peter Pape been at home in Hellroaring the late afternoon of this crowded day in New York, he doubtless would have saddled Polkadot and climbed to some lonely mesa for meditative fingering of the odd chain into which he had forged himself as a link. Instead, he locked himself in the Astor suite, little used hitherto except for sleep. The telephone he silenced with a towel wrapped around the bell. He closed the windows against distractions from the street and switched off the electric fan, the whirr of which sounded above the traffic roar.

Yet with all these aids to concentration, his rÉsumÉ of facts newly given out in the affairs of his self-selected lady reached no conclusion. Varying the metaphor, no point or eye could he see to that needle, greater than Central Park itself, which would sew the fate of the Lauderdales. The best he could do in preparation for contingencies ahead was to throw a diamond hitch around his resolve to do and dare unquestioningly in the service to which he now was sworn—to advance from initiate into full membership of the triumvirate.

He planned by the clock. At six sharp, he rang for dinner upstairs. Seven found him again in the garb worn from the West, which appealed to him as more suitable than any of the “masterpieces” tailored for less important functions than that of to-night.

The blond floor-clerk, whose hall desk stood near the entrance door to his suite, awaited his approach with an “Indian sign” of warning. But she and he couldn’t have come from the same tribe; at least he did not grasp its import until later developments translated it for him.

“Oh, Mr. Pape,” she lisped, as, actually, he was about to pass her by without his usual breezy greeting, “you’ve had three calls s’evening. You’re getting so popular. But I must say I don’t wonder at all.”

“Three calls—and for me?” He was halted by honest amaze. “How come? I mean, from whom and what about? Say, was one a lady’s voice, sort of cool, yet kind, soft yet strong, gentle yet——”

“No such riddle voice helloed you,” snapped the girl. “Three adult males they were that wanted you and one of them none too kind or soft or gentle, at that. I told ’em what I thought was the truth. Personally, you know, I make a specialty of the truth when it doesn’t do any harm. I said that you hadn’t been in since morning. They didn’t appear to have any names, no more than messages to leave.”

“Saves time answering.” Pape got underway for the elevator. “Greetings and thank-yous, ma’am, and many of them. If any more males call me, I may not be in until morning.”

“You do lead the life!”

Her exclamation faded into her stock-in-trade smile. But curiosity was in the baby stare with which she followed him to the grated door. A queer customer among the Astor’s queer. At that, though, as she admitted to her deeper self, she was “intrigued” rather than “peeved” by his utter lack of interest in what she did with her blond self when off duty.

Swinging across the rotunda six floors below, Pape was startled to see a face he recognized—that “fightingest” face of the bully with whom he had gone the single round on the park butte-top. A clockward glance reminded him that he was in considerable of a hurry. He had adequate time to keep the most important appointment of his recent life, although none to spare. The pug probably had been one of those to call him on the ’phone. But wonder over how and why he had been located by his late antagonist must be deferred until some moment less engaged.

Next second Pape heard what he instantly surmised to be the voice of a second of the three inquirers—that of Swinton Welch, boss digger at the four poplars. Now, he really felt indebted to the dapper sub-contractor who, together with the “grave diggers,” on the sacred spot, had put him in stride for the vast progress of his day. Moreover, he was interested in the possible connection between Welch and the unnamed battler he had overcome, as indicated by their joint wait at his hotel. Although he located Welch at once leaning against the news-stand, he felt he should not stop, even for a word of thanks or a pointed question. Tilting the brim of his sombrero over his eyes, he made for the Broadway entrance.

“There he goes, Duffy!”

From close behind, the thin voice of the thin boss answered several of the queries which Pape might have put without need of his putting them. So, the name of his adversary of the night before was Duffy! There was some connection between him and Welch. Both were waiting for him.

A heavy hand clamped his shoulder. “Hey you, what’s your hurry?”

Shaking the clutch, Pape turned forcefully just as Welch joined Duffy. With but a fragment of a prefatory plan, his arms flung out flail-like and brought his two untimely callers into violent collision. A short-arm jab just below the curve of Duffy’s ribs doubled him over his undersized partner with a yap of pain. Before the lobby crowd realized that anything untoward was being punched, Pape’s identity as aggressor had been lost by his dash for the revolving exit.

Almost was he within one of the door’s compartments when again halted—this time by a slender youth with an eye-brow mustache.

“I beg pardon, but isn’t this Mr. Why-Not——”

That is as far as the probable third of the “adult males” got with his mannerly question. Perhaps the weariness of his voice and the weakness of his hirsute adornment gave Pape the idea. At any rate an unoccupied arm chair stood ready. Seizing the man’s slender shoulders, he seated his third caller therein with more force than courtesy.

“So glad to meet you, Mr. Pape,” this in a sort of gasp. “I’ve been here to see you several times. A small matter of business. I’m from the——”

Pape did not wait. He was not nearly so much concerned over the source of the youth as that Welch and Duffy soon would be up and after him. He had no time for further bouts with one, two or three, regardless of a constitutional disinclination to shirk battle. He pushed through the revolving door and into the traffic out front. On the opposite side of Broadway, he dived into the up-tide of pedestrians.

One observation disturbed him as he eased himself into an empty taxi, with an order to stop at the Maine Monument. Although all others of the varied sky-signs were alive, flaunting the wan daylight with their artificial blaze, the rose-wrought welcome to Why-Not Pape was dead. He’d find time in the morning to set off a less artificial blaze of indignation before the electric company for their neglect. Surely they could spare him as many kilowatts as that sausage maker or this movie maid! His need of the hired cheer of the sign no longer was urgent, now that he had been hand-clasped into the Lauderdale triumvirate. Still, the sign that had lit his way to Jane was worthy of perpetuation.

Before night-fall no likely place was left in the near vicinity of the poplars four for any old lady’s “laborer” to dig. From the shadow of the park wall, where crouched a poke-bonneted figure, sounded an order to cease work.

“Hope has died hard, harder even than you have dug, you human steam-shovel. I guess it’s no use.” Jane’s voice was as forlorn as she looked when Pape swung up at her call.

He leaned upon the man-sized spade which he had purchased at a small hardware store near Columbus Circle just before keeping their rendezvous. He mopped from brow, neck and hands the sweat of toil as honest as ever he had done.

“So far as I’ve been able to discover,” the girl continued, “this is the only group of trees the length and breadth of the park that answers description. But evidently they are not the ones of grandfather’s rhyme.”

Pape drew some few breaths calculated to steady his pulse to normal. “Being only one of the laboring class and uneducated as most over the ultimate object of my labors—in other words, never having glimpsed the word-map of that crypt, I can’t be of much mental assistance.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t mind telling you the lines if I only could remember them,” Jane conceded. “One distinctly says to dig near the ‘whisper of poplars four.’ Confound grandfathers and their mysterious ways! Despite your willingness and energy, Mr. Pape——”

“Peter, if you please, Jane.”

“Peter, we shall have to give it up. If you’ll smooth back the earth you’ve disturbed, I’ll take off my two score years and ten.”

“You mean to retire my little old lady of the park?”

“Must, I’m due to return to Aunt Helene’s to-night from my—my visit. I have on my gray suit under this loose old black thing and a hat in my bag. If you’ll escort me to the house, I’ll be that much more obliged.”

Tugging at the strings of the poke bonnet, she stepped toward the cover of a nearby black haw whose flat-topped, branch-end clusters of bloom gleamed like phosphorus over a dark sea. He turned back to his task with his consistent superiority to intelligent inquiry. Muscularly, at least, he had earned her confidence. So far free from interruption more staying than a chance glance or careless comment, they seemed about to end an evening successful in its unsuccess, when there sounded a verbal assault.

“You’re under arrest—the both of yous—and caught with the goods, at that!”

To Pape’s ears the Irish accent had a familiar sound. Straightening to confront the two uniformed figures now materializing from the dusk and the hillock’s crest, he executed a signal which he hoped would be understood by his companion as a suggestion that she “slide out”—leave him to wriggle from the clutch of the law as best he might.

“Arrest? And for what, if you have time to swap me word for word?” he put demand.

“For the messing up and maltreating of Central Park in violation of enough statutes to hang and then jail you for a year. Don’t bother denying or it’ll be used again you. We been watching a whole half hour. You haven’t a chance at a get-away, so come along nice and companionable.”

The last admonition was shared with the bent old lady, who was too dim-sighted, evidently, to have seen her laborer’s telepogram and now appeared from around the misnamed white-blooming black haw.

“We wouldn’t like to be rough with a lady.”

The suggestive warning came from the second officer. At his voice, Pape sprang forward and peered into two familiar faces—into the chiseled smile of ’Donis Moore and the fat surprise of the “sparrow cop,” Pudge O’Shay. He couldn’t decide at the moment whether to be sorry or hopeful that these two friendly enemies should be the ones again to catch him at misdemeanor within the sacred oblong of the park.

Jane didn’t like, any more than they, that they should be “rough” with her, to judge by the readiness with which she gave up the possibility of escape and ranged alongside the Westerner, quite a bit less humped and helpless looking, however, than in her approach.

“I’ll say this is a pleasure—to be pinched by the only two friends I’ve got on the Force,” offered Pape with his hand. “How are you to-night, ’Donis Moore? O’Shay, greetings!”

“No shaking with prisoners!” The gruffness of the foot policeman was remindful of that previous meeting in which his whistle had been mistaken for a quail’s.

Adonis ignored proprieties and gripped the proffered hand.

“What you up to now, Montana—unhorsed and scratching up our front yard?”

“I’m a-digging,” Pape returned.

“A-digging for what?”

Jane supplied: “For an herb called Root-of-Evil.”

“I see. Herb-roots for mother, eh?” Moore squinted a confidential wink toward the Westerner. “If you’d taken my advice, you’d be throwing something better than dirt around for some one younger and——”

“But I did take your advice. This is what it led me to.”

“Not in them clothes, you didn’t. Why don’t you hire out to the Sewer Department, if excavating’s your line? Sorry, but you and mother is in Dutch with us.”

There came a growl from Pudge. “Not Dutch—German, and with more than us. Report of your doin’s was ’phoned the station. They sent me out to round you up. I happened on me handsome friend here off-duty and brought him along for good measure. I was minded to leave you go that other time, you cheerful lunatic. But now I’m a-going to take you in. Watch ’em, ’Donis, whilst I go ring for the wagon.”

At this mention of the auto-patrol vehicle, behind the gratings of which the lawless and unfortunate are exhibited, like caged wildlings, through the city streets, Jane stepped toward Pape. He felt her hand steal into the crook of his elbow, as if for protection from such a disgrace. Although personally he had no objection to wagoning across the park to the Arsenal, he vibrated to her mute appeal.

“As a favor, Moore, would you mind walking us to your calaboose?” he asked. “I give you my cross-my-heart-and-hope that we’ll not try to get away. Don’t refuse on mother’s account. She’s mighty spry on her feet.”

Pudge O’Shay continued to grumble. Being a sparrow cop was no job for a flat-foot, especially a fat one, he declared. He was tired and sorry for himself out loud. After a small controversy, however, he withdrew his objection to the stroll, if not taken at speed.

The procession started along No. 1 Traverse, the shortest route to the Arsenal. The arresting officer led. The prime culprit, his young-old accomplice clinging to his arm, followed. The dismounted officer brought up as rear guard.

“Got a permit for your automatic?” Pape was able to ask Jane in a murmur well below the scrunch of feet.

“No. But I’ve got the automatic with me.”

“Slip it to me!”

He did not explain the request. Whether he meant to force a gun-point escape and needed her pistol to supplement his own against their two captors or whether he feared some such desperate initiative on her part, he left her to wonder. Watching their chance, he whispered “Now!” Next second he had safe inside his own coat pocket that very small, very black and very competent looking something with which she had commanded him in vain earlier in the day.

“Just try to trust me, Jane,” was his response to the unquestioning obedience which had produced it from the blouse beneath her old-lady black.

“To try to trust you is getting easier, Peter.”

The guarded admission sounded sweeter than the rhododendrons smelled. He felt happier going to jail with Jane than ever in his life before; was luxuriating in sentimentality when a roar like that of flaunted Fate lacerated the air. Pape started and stared about; saw that they were nearing Fifth Avenue and the menagerie that flanks the Arsenal; assumed that some monarch of the wild caged there had but vented his heart. A calming hand he placed over the girl’s two which had gripped his arm.

“Just a moth-eaten old lion dreaming of his native jungle and talking in his sleep.”

“But you don’t understand what it might mean, that Nubian roar. It may be another clew to point the location of—of what grandfather buried in the park, you know.”

Through the gloom he stared down into the gloomier scoop of her bonnet.

“Say,” he enquired, mildly as he could, “you ain’t going to ask me next to play Daniel and to dig in that lion’s den?”

“Hush. Don’t make fun. This is very important. If we can find four poplars over on this side of the park, within earshot of the menagerie lions—The first crypt verse starts off like this:

“‘List to the Nubian roar

And whisper of poplars four.’”

“I wish I could remember more accurately! It rhymes about bed-rock and crock, height and might and fight, then trails off into figures. But I am certain about those first two lines. Maybe we’re getting close. With that Nubian roar as a center, let’s walk round and round, in widening circles, until we list to the whisper of poplars four.”

Pape’s perplexity had not been eased by his steady stare into the poke.

“Very nice,” he said, “that stroll round and round, provided we don’t go too fast and get dizzy. But we can’t start at the present moment.”

“Why not?”—she, this time impatiently.

“You forget, my dear young lady, that we are arrested.”

That was true. They were—and before the door of their jail.