For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack driver.

“She ain’t gwine to starve, suh,” he said slowly.  “She has reso’ces, suh; she has reso’ces.”

“I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip,” said I.

“Dat is puffeckly correct, suh,” he answered humbly.  “I jus’ had to have dat two dollars dis mawnin’, boss.”

I went to the hotel and lied by electricity.  I wired the magazine:  “A.  Adair holds out for eight cents a word.”

The answer that came back was:  “Give it to her quick you duffer.”

Just before dinner “Major” Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the greetings of a long-lost friend.  I have seen few men whom I have so instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid.  I was standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the white ribbon in his face.  I would have paid gladly for the drinks, hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable, roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.

With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar.  I looked once more at the dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper.  It was my dollar bill again.  It could have been no other.

I went up to my room.  The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary, eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless.  I remember that just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily:  “Seems as if a lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver’s Trust.  Pays dividends promptly, too.  Wonder if—­” Then I fell asleep.

King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over the stones out to 861.  He was to wait and rattle me back again when I was ready.

Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked on the day before.  After she had signed the contract at eight cents per word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair.  Without much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored Pirate to bring a doctor.  With a wisdom that I had not expected in him, he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the value of speed.  In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired and capable man of medicine.  In a few words (worth much less than eight cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of mystery.  He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old Negro.