But it's the old story of life.

We are all wise, a day after the fair!" Ten days after the stout "Rambler" shook out her snowy sails and flitted away to Bermuda, there was nothing left to ruffle the still waters of oblivion which had closed over Randall Clayton.

Only upon the face of Robert Wade, Esq., lingered now an anxious expression of vague unrest.
For the Newport Art Gallery knew the oily beauty of Mr.Adolph Lilienthal no longer.

There was a new face behind the proprietor's desk, and the "private view" gallery was permanently closed.
The furtive visitors came trooping in and went disconsolately away, for the private hall entrance was sternly shut and the electric bell removed.

Night after night police, customs, and post-office officials sat in secret conference over the mysterious threads of the Baltic smuggling conspiracy now being gathered up while Mr.
Adolph Lilienthal languished in a private cell in Ludlow Street jail.
He divided his ignorance of what he was "in for" with the frightened "Ben Timmins," who was safely locked up in a lower tier of the same human safe deposit bureau, charged with "complicity in smuggling." The affairs of Magdal's Pharmacy were being conducted by a new clerk, nominated by the police, all unknown to the Tenderloin habitues, and a service-paid detective occupied the private office where the secret connection between Lilienthal and the absent Mr.
Fritz Braun was being daily traced out.
The summer flowers were nodding over poor Randall Clayton's lonely grave, in the lonely cemetery of Woodlawn, on the September day when a queerly-assorted party of tourists descended from the train in the little Silesian village of Schebitz.