It seemed he had almost exactly trod in their footsteps so far as the Market Street Ferry. Beyond that, however, Bertram's adaptable ingenuity had spared him a duplication of their more painful adventures. Though arrested soon after his arrival, he had escaped with proud ease, legalized his status with the "borrowed" identification button, and shortly thereafter a newspaper filched from a convenient pocket had furnished him with a date. "It put me down for the count," said Bertram, "but it give me the dope I needed." That date had been September 21st, 2118.
"Two centuries!" interpolated Drayton in a sort of groaning undertone.
"Yep. Twenty-one eighteen! Old Rip had nothin' on us eh?"
Recovering from the shock, Bertram had determined to recoup his fortunes. Hence, very naturally, the incident of the fire escape, the open window, and Terence Trenmore's hotel bedroom.
"And now," he concluded, "I've come clean; but hell! — beg pardon, lady-what I want to know is this: What was that gray stuff you guys left layin' on the floor?"
"I'll tell you," responded Drayton gravely. "It was dust from the rocks of Purgatory, gathered by the great poet Dante, and placed in this crystal vial by a certain Florentine nobleman. Any other little thing you'd like to learn?"
"I guess not!" The burglar's eyes were fairly popping from his head. "Gee, if I'd heard about that Purgatory stuff, I wouldn't have touched the thing with a ten foot pole!"
"Don't let Mr. Drayton frighten you," laughed Viola. "He has no more idea than yourself what that dust is-or was. That's a foolish old legend, and even Terry doesn't really believe in it."
The Irishman shook his head dubiously. "And if it was not that, then what was it, Viola, my dear?"
Drayton sprang to his feet.