Far up in Harlem, on a dead swell street, the chance pedestrian as he chases himself by the Ville Finnerty, may see a pale, wrung face pressing itself against the pane. It is the map of Hamilton Finnerty.

“W'at's d' matter wit' d' bloke?” whispered Kid Dugan, the gasman's son, to his young companion, as they stood furtively piping off the Ville Finnerty. “Is it 'D' Pris'ner of Zenda' down to date?”

“Stash!” said his chum in a low tone. “Don't say a woid. That guy was goin' to be hitched to a soubrette. At d' las' minute d' skirt goes back on him—won't stan' for it; see! Now d' sucker's nutty. Dey's thrunning dice for him at Bloomin'dale right now!”

It was a sad, sad story of how two loving hearts were made to break away; of how in their ignorance the police declared themselves in on a play of which they wotted nit, and queered it.