“They left the ad,” said he. “Have you seen it?”
“No; I hadn’t time to get a paper,” replied Waldemar, taking the copy extended to him and reading in large display:
OFFER TO PHOTOGRAPHERS
$1,000 Reward for Special, Flash-light Photo of Governor Arthur in To-night’s Pageant. Must be Taken According to Plans and Specifications Designated by the Late Nick Karboe.
Apply to A. JONES, Ad-Visor.
Astor Court Temple, New York City.
“No wonder they ran,” said Waldemar with a grin, as he digested this document.
“And so must we if we’re to get through the crowd and reach the reviewing stand,” warned Average Jones, glancing at his watch.
Their seats, which they attained with some difficulty, were within a few feet of the governor’s box. Within reach of them sat Carroll Morrison, his long, pale, black-bearded face set in that immobility to which he had schooled it. But the cold eyes roved restlessly and the little muscles at the corners of the lips twitched.
“Tell me that he isn’t in on the game!” whispered Average Jones, and Waldemar nodded.
The sound of music from down the street turned all faces in that direction. A roar of cheering swept toward them and was taken up in the stands. The governor, in his high coach, came in sight. And, at that moment, terror struck into the soul of Waldemar.