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 Bankers' Club. Ben's our greatest expert on foreign extradition, and has spent most of his life chasing about the world after fugitives from justice. He'll spin you some good yarns."

"How perfectly fascinatin'!" exclaimed Vance, with a yawn.

But instead of taking the suggestion, he walked to the window and lit a cigarette. He stood for a while puffing at it, rolling it between his fingers, and inspecting it critically.

"Y' know, Markham," he observed, "everything's going to pot these days. It's this silly democracy. Even the nobility is degen'rating. These Régie cigarettes, now: they've fallen off frightfully. There was a time when no self-respecting potentate would have smoked such inferior tobacco."

Markham smiled.

"What's the favor you want to ask?"

"Favor? What has that to do with the decay of Europe's aristocracy?"

"I've noticed that whenever you want to ask a favor which you consider questionable etiquette, you begin with a denunciation of royalty."

"Observin' fella," commented Vance drily. Then he, too, smiled. "Do you mind if I invite Colonel Ostrander along to lunch?"

Markham gave him a sharp look.

"Bigsby Ostrander, you mean? . . . Is he the mysterious colonel you've been asking people about for the past two days?"

"That's the lad. Pompous ass and that sort of thing. Might prove a bit edifyin', though. He's the