Clifford kept doggedly at his method. It was all slow work, painstaking work, and tedious, tiring, undramatic work--as all good police work is and necessarily must be, except for now and then a turn of luck, a moment of inspiration. But after the fifth day following Jack’s disappearance a change was noticeable: from the various sources of information which Clifford had set to work, little details began to be accumulated--bits of action that had been seen, fragments of talk overheard by the patient listeners on the wires. His accumulation of tiny facts increased rapidly; and fitting the fragments together he began to perceive the outlines of a plan, though as yet he had no proof--a plan which, if he was conjecturing truly, was a typical case of how clever powers may operate through and behind the brilliant activities of Big Pleasure--of how such powers may subtly twist persons to their own ends, the person never guessing what has really happened. On the seventh day there came to him another fragment which made him see his conjecture as an even stronger possibility, which made him feel that this hidden plan was drawing toward its climax--and which caused him hastily to send off the following note to Mary:-- If you wish me to help you, then you must take no action without first referring it to me. And if any person asks you to do any particular thing, I want you to learn all the details of any proposed plan and then tell me, before you give your answer. You can invent plausible excuses for any delay. The next day proved how correct had been the reasoning that had prompted the sending of this note, for in the afternoon he had a message that Mary wished to see him at once. He hurried to her apartment, quickened with suspense. “Mr. Loveman has found that I am staying here,” she began. “I knew that. He was bound to find you sooner or later. Has he asked for anything?” “He has invited me out for the evening.” “You are to go with him alone?” “So he said.” “You learned definitely where he was going to take you?” “Yes. To dinner at the Ritz--to a play at the Empire Theater--to supper at Delmonico’s--then dancing at that new café, Le Minuit. Shall I accept?” Clifford thought rapidly. “Certainly.” “What do you think is in his mind?” “Merely to entertain you,”--though Clifford did not believe his own words,--“to try to reëstablish himself in good standing with you.” “Then how should I behave?” “Just have as good a time as you can.”