"What about you?" Peter asked gruffly. "You don't suppose you took me in, do you?"
Sogrange smiled.
"I had two reasons for coming to New York," he said. "One we accomplished upon the steamer. The other was——"
"Well?"
"To reply personally to this letter of Mr. Philip Burr," Sogrange replied, "which letter, by the by, was dated from 15, 100th Street, New York. An ordinary visit there would have been useless to me. Something of this sort was necessary."
"Then you knew!" Peter gasped. "Notwithstanding all your bravado, you knew."
"I had a very fair idea," Sogrange admitted. "Don't be annoyed with me, my friend. You have had a little experience. It is all useful. It isn't the first time you've looked death in the face. Adventures come to some men unasked. You, I think, were born with the habit of them."
Peter smiled. They had reached the hotel courtyard, and he raised himself stiffly.
"There's a fable about the pitcher that went once too often to the well," he remarked. "I have had my share of luck—more than my share. The end must come some time, you know."
"Is this superstition?" Sogrange asked.