That evening Charlotte and I concluded that we could not hold out any longer.  We must give in to the Rhamda.  I phoned for a messenger, and sent an advertisement to the newspaper which Avec had indicated.

The thing was done.  We had capitulated.

The next development would be another and triumphant call from the Rhamda, and this time we would have to give up the gem to him if we were to save Ariadne.

The game was up.

But instead of taking the matter philosophically, I worried about it all night.  I told myself again and again that I was foolish to think about something that couldn’t be helped.  Why not forget it, and go to sleep?

But somehow I couldn’t.  I lay wide awake till long past midnight, finding myself growing more and more nervous.  At last, such was the tension of it all, I got up and dressed.  It was then about one-thirty, and I stepped out on the street for a walk.

Half an hour later I returned, my lungs full of fresh air, hoping that I could now sleep.  It was only a hope.  Never have I felt wider awake than I did then.

Once more—­about three—­I took another stroll outside.  I seemed absolutely tireless.

Each time that I had turned back home I seemed to feel stronger than ever, more wakeful.  Finally I dropped the idea altogether, went to the house, and left a note for Charlotte, then walked down to the waterfront and watched some ships taking advantage of the tide.  Anything to pass the time.

And thus it happened, that, about eight o’clock—­breakfast time at 288 Chatterton Place—­I returned to the house, and sat down at the table with Charlotte.  First, however, I opened the morning paper to read our little ad.

It was not there.  It had not been printed.

XXV

AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR

I dropped the paper in dismay.  Charlotte looked up, startled, gave me a single look, and turned pale,

“What—­what’s the matter?” she stammered fearfully.

I showed her.  Then I ran to the phone.  In a few seconds I was talking to the very man who had taken the note from the messenger the day before.

“Yes, I handed it in along with the rest,” he replied to my excited query.  Then—­“Wait a minute,” said he; and a moment later added:  “Say, Mr. Fenton, I’ve made a mistake!  Here’s the darned ad on the counter; it must have slipped under the blotter.”

I went back and told Charlotte.  We stared at one another blankly.  Why in the name of all that was baffling had our ad “slipped” under that blotter?  And what were we to do?

This was the second day!

Well, we did what we could.  We arranged for the insertion of the same notice in each of the three afternoon papers.  There would still be time for the Rhamda to act, if he saw it.

The hours dragged by.  Never did time pass more slowly; and yet, I begrudged every one.  So much for being absolutely helpless.