Publisher's Synopsis
"Jack Diamond-am I dreaming?" Frank Merriwell uttered the exclamation. He was in front of the Hoffman House, in New York. Three young men in evening dress had just left the hotel, and were about to enter a cab that had drawn up to the curb for them. Frank stared in astonishment at one of them. He was a slender, clean-cut, handsome fellow. "Jack Diamond!" he repeated; "can it be? Why, I supposed he was in London!" One of the men, his silk hat thrust recklessly back on his curly yellow hair, was speaking to the driver. The other, with a mustache black as midnight, was holding the door open for the third to enter the cab. Frank sprang forward. "Diamond!" he called, "is that you?" The youth who was already half-way into the cab drew back and turned round. "Who is it?" he asked, his voice sounding a trifle thick and unnatural. Frank was before him. It was eleven o'clock at night, but the bright lights of Broadway made it almost like day. "Merriwell!" exclaimed the young fellow in the evening suit and opera-coat. "Is that you?" "Sure as you live!" cried Frank, with outstretched hand. "But I thought I was dreaming. I wasn't sure it was you." Their hands met, while Diamond's two companions looked on in silence, as if not quite pleased.
