on its front the sign "Manhattan Club and Grill." On the veranda, flush with the sidewalk and barely fifteen feet away, a huge red-faced man sat deep in slumber.
Many and strange pursuits had claimed the talents of old Tom Stacy, manager of the Manhattan Club, ere his advent in San Marco. A too active district attorney had forced the New York police to take a keen interest in his life and works, hence Mr. Stacy's presence on that Florida porch. But such troubles were forgot for the moment. He slumbered peacefully, secure in the knowledge that the real business of the club would not require his attention until darkness fell. His great head fell gradually farther in the direction of his generous waist, and while there is no authentic evidence to offer, it is safe to assume that he dreamed of Broadway.
Suddenly Mr. Stacy's head took another tilt downward, and his Panama hat slipped off to the veranda floor. To the gaze of Mr. Minot, above, there was revealed a bald pate extensive and gleaming. The habitual smile fled from Minot's face. A feeling of impotent anger filled his
