Gilfoyle reached New York on the Twentieth Century. It was an hour late, and so the railroad company paid him a dollar. He wished it had been later. In his present plight time was anything but money to him.

It took him some time to find the Hyperfilm Company's temporary studio. He learned of the fire, and his hope wavered. When he reached the studio Kedzie was not there. The news of her resignation had percolated even to the doorman, who rarely knew anything from inside or outside the studio—an excellent non-conductor of information he was. Gilfoyle had some difficulty in finding Kedzie's address, but at last he learned it, and he made haste to her apartment.

He was impressed by its gaudy vestibule. He told the hall-boy that he wanted to see Miss Adair.

“Name, please?”

“Just say a gentleman to see her.”

“Gotta git the name, or I can't 'phome up. Miss Adair naturally won't see no gempman ain't got a name.”

“Does she see many men?” Gilfoyle asked, with sudden alarm.

“Oh, nossa. Mainly Mr. Dyckman. But that's her business.”

“What Dyckman is that, the rich Jim Dyckman?”

“Well, I ain't s'posed to give out info'mation.”

“Are you supposed to take in money?” Gilfoyle juggled with a half-dollar.

The hall-boy juggled his eyes in unison, and laughed yearningly: “I reckon I might let you up by mistake. Does you know Miss Adair right well?”

“Very well—I'm a relative of hers by marriage. I want to surprise her.”

“Oh, well, you better go on up.”

Gilfoyle applied the magic silver wafer to the itching palm and stepped into the elevator when it came.