Phil Kendrick sipped his drink with what he flattered himself was a fine show of unconcern. He even smacked his lips and complimented Mr. Lawson upon the tang of that phosphate mixture he had invented; for it was indeed of fine flavor, quite a delightful beverage.

"I believe you mentioned last night that Miss Lawson had gone in for some kind of newspaper work—was on the staff of the Recorder, if I remember rightly," said Phil with an air of one who makes conversation for the sake of politeness. "I know the sporting editor of that paper and I have heard McAllister spoken of as one of the livest and most conscientious editors in the country. His staff swears by him. Is—er—Miss Lawson still with the Recorder?"

She was. And very fond of her work. She had been inclined towards literary matters almost since she was old enough to read. She wrote her first verses when she was ten, although if she knew that her dad was giving that away she would box his ears, and Nathaniel Lawson laughed to himself reminiscently.

Two things were plain to Kendrick as he listened with interest to Old Nat's homily upon the caprices of the eternal feminine—that this high-spirited motherless girl and her father were very close to each other and, paradoxically, that he knew nothing of her present masquerade as a stenographer in Ferguson's office. For masquerade it evidently was, and Kendrick's mind raced along new channels of speculation which this realization opened up.

He was eager to get away and at the risk of discourtesy he emptied his glass rather hurriedly, refused a second one, refused an invitation to stay to lunch, and once outside the grounds fled in untoward haste.

He went up the stairs at the Recorder building two steps at a time and found himself at last in the little cubbyhole where Chic White sat, surrounded by walls that were papered with half-tone pictures of pugilists, baseball and football stars, and other athletic celebrities. Phil was rather amused to note his own picture in football togs among the rest. It served to open a desultory conversation which had no bearing at all upon the object of his visit. It was some minutes before he finally veered to the subject of women in athletics and from that to women in newspaper work and from that again to the women members of the Recorder's staff. In response to his somewhat too casual enquiry concerning Miss Lawson, Chic sat back and grinned provokingly.

"Sure Mike! She's on the staff," he admitted after indulging in that disgusting habit of his, an extra-dry spit. "She does special assignments for McAllister. Fact is, she's out of town now on one of 'em."

He eyed Kendrick shrewdly.

"Some doll, eh? But you aint got a look-in, Ken. Why say, boy, there aint a guy on this rag that wouldn't walk up a church aisle with Cris Lawson any old time she passed the high sign. She's got 'em all buffaloed. But they say she 'n' the Boss understand each other pretty well. Anyway she's sportin' a solitaire," and again White grinned and spat deliberately.

Phil got out as fast as he could. He was in a strange state of exhilaration at his discovery which not all the gossip of a hundred newspaper offices nor all the solitaire diamond rings that ever were could have dampened just then.

He hastened now to the office of Blatchford Ferguson over at the Brokers' Bank Building, buttonholed Conway and informed him that he had an important message for Miss Williams which he must deliver in person at once. Only to have Conway shake his head. Miss Williams was not there any more—had handed in her resignation last night.

"Rather sudden, wasn't it?"

"I should say so! We all knew she was here only temporarily, but she certainly left rather suddenly. Young Roy over there was awfully stuck on her; he hasn't been fit to live with all day."

"Do you know where I could catch her now? Did she leave any address?"

"Why no, she didn't," replied Conway. "I believe she expected to be married soon to a chap in Buffalo and I rather think that's where she went."

Kendrick bit his lip for a moment, considering. Then he asked for the telephone directory, thought better of it and decided to call at the office of the Alderson Construction Company unheralded. The young man who came to the counter was Jimmy Stiles himself, Kendrick surmised; but he merely asked to see Mr. James Stiles.

"That's my name," said the bookkeeper, casting a glance of quick suspicion at the caller.

"Glad to know you, Mr. Stiles," smiled Kendrick, holding out his hand, and he passed his card, dropping his voice to a more confidential tone. "I wonder if you'll do me the honor to take lunch with me in an hour's time, or if that's not convenient——?"

"Why? What do you want?" Stiles' face paled slightly, Kendrick thought. He glanced over his shoulder rather nervously, too, as if fearful of surveillance. "I—You are a stranger to me, sir. I do not see why—that is, do not know what——" Plainly he was embarrassed by the invitation.

"I want to talk to you on several important matters of considerable interest to yourself. I have some questions to ask you concerning Miss Cristy Lawson," said Kendrick directly.

"Oh, you have? How d'you know I got answers to them?" There was no question about the pallor of young Stiles now. "She aint nothin' in my young life an' I don't know 's I got the time."

"Listen here, Stiles," said Kendrick sharply. "I'd advise you to meet me as I suggest—in your own interests, let us say. I happen to know a few things which must be cleared up at once and only you can do it. Understand? You don't want me to start something and—well, spill the beans? Do you?"

"Wh—what—er—beans?" stammered Stiles, plainly frightened.

"I'm not talking about Boston baked anyway," smiled Phil. "You won't get hurt if you play fair with me." He frowned. "I guess you know what I'm referring to. Will you take lunch with me and talk it over pleasantly or do you want me to go and see—Nickleby?

"Well, we aint buyin' no more stationery just now, sir. Call again some time. Perhaps later on we may be needin' somethin'."

"Oh, very well then," nodded Kendrick easily, at once sensing the effort of a clerk to overhear the conversation—a man who had sauntered over to the counter and was making pretense of examining a directory within earshot of the two. "Our carbon paper is exceptionally fine. If I call some day about—shall we say twelve-thirty?"

"Yes, that hour will be O.K., sir," he said aloud. "Thanks. Meet me at the corner," he added in a whisper.

So Jimmy Stiles was being watched in that office, thought Phil as he went down in the elevator. What for? Who by? A couple more questions to add to his collection. Well, they'd go over to the Island residence for their lunch where they would be undisturbed. He had telephoned already to Mrs. Parlby to serve luncheon for two, and dropped into the National Club to fill in the interval till twelve-thirty.

Sharp on time Stiles put in an appearance at the appointed place, but he demurred upon learning where Kendrick was proposing to take him.

"Gee Whiz! I got to get back to the office inside an hour," he objected.

"I'll promise to get you back on time," assured Phil. "The launch is moored down at the Canoe Club and she can do forty-five under pressure."

In spite of Kendrick's efforts at conversation on the way over, it was plain that his guest was ill at ease; but it was not until they were comfortably seated in the library that he undertook to relieve the bookkeeper's anxiety to know what was in his mind.

"I think perhaps your appetite will be improved, Jimmy, if we talk before we eat," smiled Phil. He offered his cigarette-case. "There is no reason why you and I should not be good friends."

Having first satisfied himself that there was no doubt whatever of young Stiles' loyalty to Nathaniel Lawson, he proceeded to recount briefly the events which had led up to his discovery of the real identity of Miss Margaret Williams. The extent of Kendrick's evident knowledge startled Stiles, if his nervousness was any criterion.

"Miss Lawson was masquerading in Ferguson's office for some reason. I caught her listening at the keyhole while Podmore was interviewing Ferguson day before yesterday. You might begin by explaining why she should report all this to you, Stiles, and why you tried to follow me last night after I left Mr. Lawson. I know that Miss Lawson is a valued member of the Recorder staff. Now, what about it?"

"She's doin' some special stunt for the paper," Stiles nodded after a little hesitation. "We've been good friends for quite a while, but there aint no reason why she should tell me all she knows, is there? She came to me yesterday an' asked me to keep an eye on your movements for a bit. She said you were workin' with Podmore an' that you an' him had swiped some envelope from Mr. Wade, the railroad president, and hidden it."

"That's what comes of listening at keyholes. Go on."

"That's all, Mr. Kendrick. She was kind of worried over you callin' on her father an' give me Hail Columbia for losin' sight of you last night after she'd gone to the trouble of pointin' you out to me. But I aint no dime novel detective!"

"Why should she be interested in my movements?"

"Search me!"

"Why did those two fellows jump on you last night? Don't say they were after your watch. Tell me the truth."

"Well, you seen how they was watchin' me at the office to-day, didn't you? I've been watched like that ever since——" Stiles stopped short in some confusion.

"Ever since the theft of the satchel containing fifty thousand dollars," prompted Kendrick. "I know all about that. It's all right. Go on."

But for a moment Stiles was stricken dumb by this cool speech.

"Who told you about that?" he demanded in a scared tone. "Say, how'd it be if you told me what's your side in this little gab-fest? Who you workin' for? Police? Nickleby? Say, you aint crazy enough to think I had anything to do with the disappearance of that bunch of coin, are you?"

"Hardly," smiled Phil. He handed over Benjamin Wade's letter of introduction, "to whom it may concern." The change which perusal of these credentials wrought in Jimmy Stiles was at once noticeable. He relaxed in his chair with a breath of relief and laughed.

"Why didn't you say in the first place you were Wade's private secretary?" he protested. "Gee whiz! Now I know where I'm at—if it's true," he added suspiciously, suddenly sitting erect again. "Miss Lawson said she heard Podmore tell Ferguson you hid that envelope for him in a stump up in the bush near some watertank or other after he'd pinched it from Mr. Wade's private car, and that you two fellows were friends an' had both got fired by Wade because you wouldn't tell where the envelope was."

"It isn't wise to believe everything one hears, Jimmy,—through key-holes," advised Kendrick. "That's all a bluff. It was Mr. Wade's idea that by pretending to be friendly toward Podmore I might get a line on something. We framed up the whole thing on Podmore."

"But the envelope really was swiped an' hid in the stump, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I left it there at Mr. Wade's suggestion."

"With all that money in it?"

"The bills were bogus—just stage money."

"What!" cried Stiles in excitement. "Gee-whilikins! Is that right, Mr. Kendrick?" His mouth opened in what seemed to be fear as well as astonishment. "But of course it's right. That's what he wanted me to get that duplicate envelope for. Gosh! why didn't we think of that last night?"

He got up and took a turn across the room and back in his agitation.

"You surely didn't expect—?" began Kendrick in considerable surprise.

"We haven't known what to expect," interrupted Stiles anxiously. "Anything—everything!—with fifty thousand dollars of election money kicking around loose. Why, Miss Lawson's been on the trail of this campaign fund contribution ever since that night when—that is to say——" For a second time Jimmy Stiles paused uncertainly.

Kendrick had a flash of inspiration. He sprang to his feet, reaching excitedly into his pocket.

"Has Miss Lawson ever owned a pin like this? Is this her's?" and he unfolded the dollar bill and held out the blouse pin for inspection.

"Sure, that's her's. She told me she lost one from her best hand-painted set in your canoe that night."

Kendrick sat down in the nearest chair and laughed as if Stiles had said something which was exceedingly witty. The outburst was so spontaneous and unaccountable that the bookkeeper stared at him. He could not know that Phil would laugh with equal abandon just then if somebody were to inform him that the real reason a hen crosses the road is to get to the other side.

"She seems to have taken you pretty well into her confidence, Jimmy.
Perhaps you can tell me who her escort was that night of the fog—a Joe
Somebody."

"Oh, that was me. I paddled her across the bay that night. We agreed to call each other by fake names in case anybody heard us talking. When she got into your canoe by mistake I was only about ten yards away, but I was scared to move. I knew she could take care of herself."

Again Phil laughed. But Stiles was growing impatient and his worried look returned.

"Say, never mind all that, Mr. Kendrick, please. We've got to do something about this other thing right away quick. Nickleby's been havin' Podmore watched an' he had a seance yesterday afternoon with the fellow that's doing it. There's liable to be others setting out with the same idea she had——"

"What do you mean?" demanded Kendrick, seriously.

"Miss Lawson took the train west last night to get that darn envelope you hid in the stump in the woods——"

"Good heavens!"

"I told her she oughtn't to try it," went on Stiles earnestly. "She's liable to run into all sorts of trouble. But she wouldn't listen to me for a minute. She aint scared of anything, Miss Lawson aint, an' she thinks it's real money she's rescuing all by her lonesome."

"You don't mean to say she went all alone?" asked Phil in dismay.

"That's just it. She wouldn't have it any other way."

They gazed at each other with sober faces.