After a bit he rose, abandoned his occupation, and began to walk about the room, seeking something to divert his thoughts. In one corner stood Mrs. Fowler's desk. It was open, and the noon edition of a paper lay upon it, an inkwell weighting down the newspaper. Pausing idly beside the desk, never thinking that the newspaper might have been so placed designedly, Jimmy Wren removed it and opened it out, glancing through the columns and scanning the headlines with careless gaze. Then he turned and put down the paper--and as he did so, observed two objects over which it had originally been laid. One of these objects was a check; the other was an unsigned note. Jimmy Wren stared down, absolutely petrified by the thing he saw, his eyes widening in fearful and terrible comprehension. For a long moment the written words did not penetrate to his consciousness. It was only the handwriting that he saw, the handwriting that smote into him with an actual physical shock, blinding him to everything but the staggering realization of its presence here on Mrs. Fowler's desk. No one who had ever seen it could forget that bold, angular, masterful handwriting of Lawrence Macgowan. Wren wet his lips, swallowed hard, stunned beyond any swift recovery. Mrs. Fowler did not know Macgowan, except very slightly indeed, and certainly had no use whatever for the man; indeed, Wren had very often discussed Macgowan's acts and schemes with her, feeling a sympathy and comprehension on her part which was very grateful. Her detestation of Macgowan's type of man was intense. Then, why this letter--this communication with Macgowan? Startled, angered, a flood of horrible suspicion searing into his soul, Jimmy Wren reached down and picked up that sheet of notepaper bearing the few lines of writing. Not until then did the words achieve impact upon his brain, but now that impact came with astounding and terrific force: "Dear Viola: Herewith a check in the usual form, on account. During the next few days I want the fullest possible information. Then we'll hold that party of celebration." Wren replaced the note, and let his eyes drop to the check. It did not bear Macgowan's name, and the signature was wholly strange to Wren. After a moment he drew a quick breath, looked down at the desk, replaced the newspaper and weight as they had been originally, then turned and walked to the window-seat. There he sank down, staring out at the street and park beyond. His brain was at work now, dreadfully at work. Viola! So Macgowan knew her by that other name, the same name Dorothy Armstrong had used. Viola Bland! And what information did Macgowan want--how long had Mrs. Fowler been collecting information for Macgowan? A little shiver passed through Wren's body. He remembered now about his flight to Tampa, and putting two and two together, began to form an unescapable certainty.