They found themselves in a large room， occupied by twenty or twenty-five elegantly clothed ladies.Racing charts hung against the walls， a ticker clicked in one corner； with a telephone receiver to his ear a man was calling out the various positions of the horses in a very exciting race.The occupants of the room looked up at the intruders； but， as if reassured by the sight of the captain's uniform， they reverted their attention to the man at the telephone.
"You see，" said the captain to Turpin， "the value of an anonymous letter！ No high-minded and self-respect-ing gentleman should consider one worthy of notice.
Is your wife among this assembly， Mr.Turpin？""She is not，" said Turpin.
"And if she was，" continued the captain， "would she be within the reach of the tongue of slander？ These ladies constitute a Browning Society.They meet to discuss the meaning of the great poet.The telephone is connected with Boston， whence the parent society transmits frequently its interpretations of the poems.Be ashamed of yer suspicions， Mr.Turpin.""Go soak your shield，" said Turpin."Vivien knows how to take care of herself in a pool-room.She's not dropping anything on the ponies.There must be some-thing queer going on here."
"Nothing but Browning，" said the captain."Hear that？""Thanatopsis by a nose，" drawled the man at the telephone.
"That's not Browning； that's Longfellow，" said Turpin， who sometimes read books.
"Back to the pasture！" exclaimed the captain."long-fellow made the pacing-to-wagon record of 7.53 'way back in 1868.""I believe there's something queer about this joint，"repeated Turpin.
"I don't see it，" said the captain.
"I know it looks like a pool-room， all right，" persisted Turpin， "but that's all a blind.Vivien has been dropping a lot of coin somewhere.I believe there's some under-handed work going on here."
A number of racing sheets were tacked close together， covering a large space on one of the walls.Turpin， suspicious， tore several of them down.A door， pre-viously hidden， was revealed.Turpin placed an ear to the crack and listened intently.He heard the soft hum of many voices， low and guarded laughter， and a sharp， metallic clicking and scraping as if from a multitude of tiny but busy objects.
"My God！ It is as I feared！" whispered Turpin to himself."Summon your men at once！" he called to the captain."She is in there， I know."At the blowing of the captain's whistle the uniformed plain-clothes men rushed up the stairs into the pool-room.When they saw the betting paraphernalia distrib-uted around they halted， surprised and puzzled to know why they had been summoned.
But the captain pointed to the lock-ed door and bade them break it down.In a few moments they demolished it with the axes they carried.Into the other room sprang Claude Turpin， with the captain at his heels.
The scene was one that lingered long in Turpin's mind.Nearly a score of women -- women expensively and fashionably clothed， many beautiful and of refined appearance -- had been seated at little marble-topped tables.When the police burst open the door they shrieked and ran here and there like gayly plumed birds that had been disturbed in a tropical grove.Some became hysterical； one or two fainted； several knelt at the feet of the officers and besought them for mercy on account of their families and social position.
A man who had been seated behind a desk had seized a roll of currency as large as the ankle of a Paradise Roof Gardens chorus girl and jumped out of the window.
Half a dozen attendants huddled at one end of the room， breathless from fear.
Upon the tables remained the damning and incon-trovertible evidences of the guilt of the habitu閑s of that sinister room -- dish after dish heaped high with ice cream， and surrounded by stacks of empty ones， scraped to the last spoonful.
"Ladies，" said the captain to his weeping circle of prisoner "I'll not hold any of yez.Some of yez I recog-nize as having fine houses and good standing in the community， with hard-working husbands and childer at home.But I'll read ye a bit of a lecture before ye go.
In the next room there's a 20-to-1 shot just dropped in under the wire three lengths ahead of the field.Is this the way ye waste your husbands' money instead of help-ing earn it？ Home wid yez！ The lid's on the ice-cream freezer in this precinct."Claude Turpin's wife was among the patrons of the raided room.He led her to their apartment in stem silence.There she wept so remorsefully and besought his forgiveness so pleadingly that he forgot his just anger， and soon he gathered his penitent golden-haired Vivien in his arms and forgave her.
"Darling，" she murmured， half sobbingly， as the moon-light drifted through the open window， glorifying her sweet， upturned face， "I know I done wrong.I will never touch ice cream again.I forgot you were not a millionaire.I used to go there every day.But to-day I felt some strange， sad presentiment of evil， and I was not myself.I ate only eleven saucers.""Say no more，" said Claude， gently as he fondly caressed her waving curls.
"And you are sure that you fully forgive me？" asked Vivien， gazing at him entreatingly with dewy eyes of heavenly blue.
"Almost sure， little one，" answered Claude， stooping and lightly touching her snowy forehead with his lips.
"I'll let you know later on.I've got a month's salary down on Vanilla to win the three-year-old steeplechase to-morrow； and if the ice-cream hunch is to the good you are It again -- see？"
