"I should think so. Well, there's nothing more to be done. That's all you know about the case?"
"That's all, sir."
"Never heard of the Queen of Spades in this connection?"
"Never, sir."
"Well, good-night, officer. Brownson's your name, eh? I shan't forget it."
"Good-night, sir."
The night was fine, and we walked home. Over on Eighth Avenue a masquerade ball was in progress; we passed under the brightly lit windows of the hall in which it was being held. A masker stood at the door, a woman dressed to impersonate the Queen of Spades. She waved her hand to Indiman, who had chanced to look up; then she plucked a rose from her bodice and tossed it over to him. He caught the flower, as becomes a gallant man, but immediately walked on.
"That was your cue—the Queen of Spades," I said.
"Not at all. It is only the third time that counts. First at the opera, and now here; the final and only important appearance is still to come."
At the next corner a wretchedly clad woman sat grinding a small barrel-organ. "For the love of Mary!" she whimpered, and Indiman thrust something into her waiting hand. He tried to hide the action, but I had caught sight of the money—a yellow-backed bill bearing the magic figures 50.