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Mr. Benjamin Barclay, jewelry drummer and head salesman on the road for the great jewelry manufacturing house, Darlington & Darlington, Jr., started on his spring trip West on the 19th day of May, a year or two ago, and instead of making Poughkeepsie his first stop, as he usually did, left the Hudson River train at Summerville, a smaller town than he was accustomed to make and one which was not down on the list furnished him by the house.

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when the drummer saw his three valuable sample trunks safe in the Duchess House and then he started out on Main street to attend to the one call which had brought him to the place.

His errand was with one Simon Sneller, who kept a book and stationery store two doors from the post office and carried a small line of jewelry and silverware as well.

The moment he saw the establishment Ben Barclay felt that there was something wrong with his errand.

“Can this be a bait?” he muttered. “I must keep my eye peeled. If I lose my trunks I’m a ruined man.”

He had good reason to be worried.

Three heavy jewelry robberies had taken place during the fall before.

Drummers’ trunks in each case, and in each case a mysterious lady in black mixed up with it.

Ben Barclay had read the newspaper accounts of these robberies over until he knew them by heart.

He also knew one of the victims, a traveler named Sam Magowan, and had been with him several times when, with detectives, the slums of New York had been fruitlessly searched for the thieves.

“I don’t like the looks of that place,” muttered Ben. “Guess I’ll go back and ask the landlord to have an extra watch on my trunks.”

He did so and then started out again with his satchel and catalogues and walked boldly into Mr. Sneller’s store.

“Good morning, sir. My name is Barclay. I represent Darlington & Darlington, Jr., of New York. I called in response to your letter of last week,” said Ben, blandly.

Old Simon Sneller, who sat at the bench repairing a watch, looked up over his spectacles, taking in Ben’s spruce get-up with his twinkling gray eyes.

“Wrong,” he said briefly. “You’re all wrong.”

Then he stuck a single glass in his eye and, tweezers in hand, went on examining the watch.

“How do you mean, sir?” asked Ben, after waiting a moment.

“Never wrote you a letter. Haven’t written a letter in ten years.”

“Here it is, sir.”

Ben took the document in question out of his pocket and extended it toward the jeweler, who seemed to be afraid to take it and made no move to do so.

“This letter is signed with your name, sir,” he said, with rising temper. “It won’t bite you—have a look.”

“Read it,” said Sneller, who was a man of few words.

Ben read as follows:

“Messrs. Darlington & Darlington, Jr., Maiden Lane, New York:

“Gentlemen—I have an opportunity of placing a good line of rings and chains with a friend who is about to open a jewelry store in a good town. This will be cash business. Please let a representative of your firm call on me at your earliest convenience with full line of samples. I’ve been twenty-five years established here and ask no credit, but prices must be low or it will be a case of no sale. Yours truly,

Simon Sneller, Summerville, N. Y.”

“That’s the letter, Mr. Sneller,” said Ben, as he folded it up. “I don’t like to be made a fool of. If you can explain now’s about the time.”

“Fraud!” snapped Sneller. “Never wrote it. Don’t want to buy anything. Want to sell what I’ve got.”

“Have you any idea who could have played such a trick?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“How should I know?” he growled. “Hain’t got no more time to talk. I want to fix this watch.”

And this was all that was to be got out of Simon Sneller.

Ben was furious when he left the place.

He soon cooled down and, as he hurried back toward the hotel, resolved to leave town at once and make Poughkeepsie his next stop.

There would be a train in half an hour, which would allow him easy time to get the trunks down to the station.

Such was the drummer’s plan when he returned to the Duchess House.

He had determined on the way to keep his mouth shut, but being a great talker naturally he did what many another foolish person has done under similar circumstances.

In other words, he opened his mouth the first chance he got.

He told the whole story to the landlord, who burst out into a hearty laugh.

“Some one has been playing a trick on you, sure, my friend,” he said. “Old Si Sneller hasn’t a dollar in the world outside of his rubbishy stock. He never wrote you any letter. Blamed if I believe the old fellow can sign his own name.”

Ben called an express wagon and rode on his trunks to the station.

The one he sat on contained diamonds, watches and jewelry valued at upward of sixty thousand dollars.

No wonder the drummer sat on the trunk. He determined not to let it out of his sight until it was safely on the train.

Checking the trunks for Poughkeepsie, Ben walked up and down the platform, where they lay awaiting the arrival of the train.

No one paid any particular attention to him, for, of course, no one guessed the value of the three trunks which, all told, footed up to over a hundred thousand dollars.

Ben’s was a risky business.

Dozens of jewelry houses risk their goods this way every season. It is a wonder that losses are not more common than they are.

Ben Barclay had been nine years on the road and had not made a loss yet.

But his time was close at hand.

There was a down train due in two minutes when a close carriage drawn by a spanking team of greys rattled up to the station, the wheels well splashed with mud.

“Say! Hey!” called the driver, shaking his hand at Ben. “Mr. Barclay, a moment, if you please!”

The calling of his name threw the drummer off his guard and he stepped to the carriage.

The door was open now and a stylish lady in black, who sat alone inside, looked out.

“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Barclay?” she asked in a low, thrilling voice.

“Indeed I do not,” replied Ben, raising his hat, politely.

“I am Mrs. Girard, of Utica. You have sold my husband and you have seen me in the store, or rather I have seen you and on one occasion we were introduced.”

The down train came thundering into the station before Ben could reply.

He turned to look at his trunks. They were in sight and all safe.

Then he turned again to Mrs. Girard.

He knew her husband, of course; old customer of his; couldn’t remember meeting her, though; very happy to do so, however; was she stopping here? Yes, she was; on a visit to her sister in an adjoining town; couldn’t resist the temptation to make herself known when she saw Mr. Barclay on the platform; hoped he would not think her over bold, etc., etc.

It was small talk all of it and Ben suddenly remembered the mysterious lady in black who had figured in the jewelry robberies the previous fall.

“Excuse me!” he exclaimed, turning toward the platform.

Instantly the door of the carriage was shut and the driver, whipping up his horses, sent the carriage dashing away.

“Stop that carriage! Stop it!” yelled the drummer, “I’ve been robbed!”

There were but two trunks on the platform instead of three.

The $60,000 trunk was missing.

It was Ben Barclay’s turn now.

He had been nipped by the jewelry thieves.

“Great heavens, I’m in for it!” he gasped. “Unless I can get back that trunk I’m a ruined man.”