[Illustration: The handsomest girl I had set eyes upon in a month of
moons.]
"And what, may I ask, was the fatal card?" inquired the old man,
folding his paper.
"The ace of spades; we always choose that gloomy card in secret
societies. There is something deadly and suggestive about it," I
answered morbidly.
"Indeed."
"Yes. Ah, if only you knew the terrible life we lead, we who conspire!
Every day brings forth some galling disappointment. We push a king off
into the dark, and another rises immediately in his place. Futility,
futility everywhere! If only there were some way of dynamiting habit
and custom! I am a Russian; all my family are perishing in Siberian
mines,"--dismally.
"Fudge!" said the girl.
"Tommy-rot!" said the amiable old gentleman.
"Uncle, his hair is too short for an anarchist."
"And his collar too immaculate." (So the old gentleman was this
charming creature's uncle!)
"We are obliged to disguise ourselves at times," I explained. "The
police are always meddling. It is discouraging."
"You have some purpose, humorous or serious," said the girl shrewdly.
"A man does not bring a pack of cards--"
"I didn't bring them; I sent out for them."
"--bring a pack of cards here simply to attract attention," she
continued tranquilly.
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