IN barely thirty minutes the hall was emptied, cleansed of blood and debris, and the ceremony of the “examinations” resumed.

Mr. Justice Supreme had waited, dozing, on his throne. The lesser servants perforce waited also, albeit impatiently and with much glancing at watches and sotto voce complaint about the delay.

Sad, silent, and defeated, the Numbers had retired, bearing with them their injured and their dead. When the hall was at last cleared the lovely, milk-white pavement resembled more nearly the pit of a slaughter house than the floor of a temple. It was smeared and slimy with trampled blood, fragments of clothing, and other fragments less pleasant to contemplate. The temple force of “white wings,” however, made short work of it. They dragged out a few lengths of hose, turned on a powerful water pressure and in less than five minutes the blood and debris were washed down three drains to which the pavement imperceptibly sloped. The wet floor gleamed whiter than ever, and the Red Bell and wonderful walls were reflected with redoubled glory. A corps of scrubwomen went to work on hands and knees to dry and polish the cleansed floor, while Mr. Pity, with a final glance at his watch, again rose and advanced to the platform edge.

“The next superlative quality on my list,” droned the master of ceremonies, disregarding the fact that he addressed only the bent backs of five inattentive scrubwomen, “is that of Quickest. This office entails management and control, under Penn Service, of the Department of Police, involving responsibility for the keeping of peace in Philadelphia and outlying suburbs.”

A slim, alert-looking man of about forty-five advanced to the pit.

“Is there any other candidate for this office? Any other candidate?”

Came the click of hurrying heels, and round the dais appeared a small, rotund figure, surmounted by a cherubic but troubled countenance. Trenmore growled disappointedly. He had hoped for Drayton, not Bertram. What misadventure was keeping his friend away?

Bertram came up just as the master of ceremonies commenced his stereotyped conclusion: “No other candidate for this office. Present holder may—”

“Wait a minute there!” cried Trenmore, and thrust Bertram forward. “Go on—go on in, you fat rascal!” he added in a forceful whisper. “Here’s the contest for Quickest now. You’ve not quite missed it. Go on!”

Though Bertram struggled vainly to face about, the Irishman still pushed him forward. He was not wasting such an opportunity to delay the proceedings in his absent friend’s interest.

“I-I’ve changed my mind!” the burglar protested.

“Are we to understand,” cut in Mr. Pity, “that this person does or does not wish to compete? Just a minute, chief. I don’t know whether or not you have a rival.”

“Certainly not!” spluttered Bertram.

“Certainly he does!” Trenmore’s affirmative drowned out the burglar’s plaintive negative. “If you don’t,” he added in his victim’s ear, “I’ll wring the round head off you!”

Mr. Arnold Bertram succumbed. Between two dangers, he chose the pit.

“Very well, y’r honor,” he stammered. “I-I guess I’ll have a go at it.”

“Come forward then,” snapped the master of ceremonies impatiently. “What is your number, place of residence, occupation, and age? Answer in order and speak clearly, please.”

“My-Say, I ain’t got no number.”

“What?” Pity glanced frowningly at Bertram’s lapel, and saw the green button with which Loveliest had supplied him. “With whose family are you connected?”

Just then Cleverest, who had been sitting quietly among the servants, rose and strolled to the front. He looked Bertram over; then turned to the throne.

“Your Supremity, this is one of those four strangers of whom you are already informed. Is it permitted that the usual questions be omitted?”

Both Mr. Pity and the Superlative seemed to interpret the inarticulate snarl which replied as assent. The latter gentleman, after giving Viola an encouraging smirk, sauntered back to his seat.

“Very well,” said Pity. “But I must call you something you know. Haven’t you any title?”

“Me name’s Bertram,” conceded the burglar.

“Well-er-Bertram, you now have an opportunity to prove yourself the quickest man in the city. Bring around that machine there.”

At the word a thing like a penny-in-the-slot scales were trundled over the porcelain by two pit guards. They brought it to a halt just before Mr. Pity. Following it came Mr. Virtue, who drew the chief of police aside, whispered earnestly to him, and stepped back. Suspiciously Bertram eyed the contrivance, with its platform and large dial.

“Now, Bertram, place yourself on that platform and grasp the lever at the right. That’s it. Now. Raise your left hand and snap finger and thumb nine times!”

With a dazed look the burglar obeyed. The needle on the dial jerked, swept around once, quivered, and stopped. By the servant’s instructions, Bertram performed a number of similar feats, all equally trivial. Each time the needle made its mysterious record. At last Mr. Pity seemed satisfied.

“Very good. Mr. Virtue, would you mind making a note of that percentage? You may step off, Bertram.”

Still dazed, Bertram again obeyed.

“You next, chief. Thank you.”

The mysterious rites of the grasped lever and foolish-looking calisthenics were repeated.

“What is the comparison, Mr. Virtue?”

The servant figured for a moment on the back of an envelope.

“Ninety-eight for friend Bertram; ninety-five for the chief. Congratulations to you, my man! Sorry, chief. I fear you’re getting old!”

The alert man who had been so unceremoniously superseded stepped off the little platform. He did not look particularly concerned, thought Trenmore—not at all like a man condemned to lose both means of living and life.

“It’s all in the game, Mr. Virtue,” he observed cheerfully. “Tell the boys to send lilies of the valley. When’s the funeral?”

“Some other time, chief,” retorted Virtue with equal jocosity. “The pit is not working right to-day.”

“The cheerful liar!” muttered Trenmore. “Now tell me, Viola, what’s the meaning of yonder small comedy?”

The girl, white-lipped and sick at heart, laughed mirthlessly. “What does it matter? At least, neither Bertram nor the other is to be murdered. Terry, if Mr. Drayton does not return soon, what shall we do when our time comes?”

“He will return—he must—but now what’s wrong with the little round man?”

It was evident that Bertram was in a difficulty of some sort. The displaced chief of police had him firmly by the collar. Mr. Virtue was glaring at him with an expression of incredulous wrath, while Cleverest strode toward them, anxiety in every line of his sharp features.

Terence and Viola were at that time unable to understand the disgrace of Bertram and his immediately subsequent condemnation. It appeared only that during their three minutes’ conversation with one another the burglar had committed some act so unpardonable that even the intercession of Cleverest did not avail him. Apparently the act had been witnessed by every one present save the two remaining candidates. The accusation was not even formulated in words.

“In three hours’ time let him be cast into the pit,” came the inexorable judgment from the throne. “Let him have that three hours to consider and repent of his sacrilege. Penn is just and all-merciful. Take the prisoner away! Let the former chief resume his official duties.”

The chief celebrated his rehabilitation by dragging his presumptuous successor off the scene, the latter still sputtering and expostulating, his captor wearing an expression of serene amusement.

“What next?” questioned Viola hopelessly.

The next arrived with great promptness. Mr. Pity had no more than glanced at his list, after the prisoner’s removal, when there came the tramp of feet and the sound of an excited voice.

“Bring him along, men,” it commanded. “Drag the sacrilegious beast before the throne! Let his Supremity judge the dog!”

Then appeared the triumphant Mr. Mercy, waving on a cohort of four policemen. In their midst was another and much disheveled prisoner.

“’Tis Bobby!” groaned the Irishman.

Loveliest appeared, crossed behind the guarded prisoner, and defiantly took her stand beside Trenmore. Evidently the downfall of two of her four proteges had alarmed the woman. As much occasion for formality had vanished with the Numbers’ exit, she had chanced the anger of the throne and come to her “big man’s “ assistance. Once more Mr. Justice Supreme was roused from somnolence.

“Well, well,” he demanded crossly of Mercy. “What’s all this about? Are we never to have a moment’s peace to finish these examinations? Who is that fellow you have there?”

Mr. Mercy bowed gracefully, silk hat for once removed and pressed to his triumphant bosom. He cast one glance of joyous malice at Loveliest, and addressed the throne:

“Your Supremity, I have a well-nigh unbelievable charge to lay against this prisoner. Because of the magnitude, the incredible audacity of his crime, and because one—I might say two—of our own number have actually stood his sponsor—because of these things, I say, I have presumed to interrupt the proceedings of this Board of Examiners in the full faith that—”

“Get to the point—get to the point, man,” cut in the high priest petulantly. “What has be done?”

Again Mercy bowed. “Your Supremity, to waste no words, this mad and audacious stranger, this insolent abuser of Your Supremity’s hospitality, who now faces the very throne with such brazen effrontery—”

“Well-well? Mr. Mercy, if you can’t tell it, step aside, please, and allow me to question the prisoner himself!”

“He has invaded the holy Library of Penn,” retorted Mercy, “and perused the sacred books!”

There was a general movement of interest among the bored servants. Several of the women auditors rose from their chairs and walked forward to obtain a better view of the prisoner. Even His Supremity was aroused. His face purpled with a rage greater than that awakened by the presumptuous Numbers, his mouth worked horribly, and it was some moments before he could sufficiently control his voice to speak. “How do you know this?” he at last enunciated hoarsely.

“Because I caught him at it,” replied Mercy unguardedly.

“You? You found him? What were you doing in the library?”

Mr. Mercy started and gasped at the trap in which he had caught himself. “Why-I-I was passing by and the door was open. I looked in and—and—”

“Your Supremity, have I permission to speak?”

The interrupter was one of the police officers holding Drayton. Mercy turned upon him with furious face, but Justice Supreme waved him to silence. “You may speak, Forty-five. Mr. Mercy, I am conducting this inquiry. Kindly refrain from intimidating the witness.”

“Your Supremity, two hours ago or thereabouts, Mr. Mercy come to me and says ‘Forty-five, is the door of the library locked to-day?’ I says, no, I thought not, as Your Supremity had been in there reading. On days when you cared to read, you very seldom kept it locked. No one would ever dare go in there, anyway. Then he says—”

“Wait a minute!” came a voice of repressed fury from the throne. “Mr. Pity, will you take this down, please?”

Pity drew forth his fountain pen and a small blank book. He began to scribble furiously.

“‘Your Supremity,’ he says then, ‘is the door a............