At four o’clock Clifford saw Loveman leave the Criminal Courts Building and step into the closed car he had seen Loveman and Mary Regan enter seven nights earlier in front of the Grand Alcazar. Clifford, at a discreet distance, followed in a taxi. The big car, after twisting about through the region of clubs and restaurants, deposited Loveman before a great hotel on Fifth Avenue, The Grantham. Clifford, following him in, saw Loveman address the perfect young blonde who sat at a switchboard within a grilled enclosure, wait while the blonde announced his name through the telephone, then saw him make for the elevators. Clifford waited several minutes, then himself approached the deity of the switchboard. “I want to get in touch with Mr. Loveman at once, and I believe he’s calling here.” “Yes, on Mrs. Gardner--twelfth floor, Apartment M. Shall I ’phone up you’re here?” “I guess I’ll not interrupt him. I’ll catch him when he comes down.” The blonde, Clifford had at once divined, was the sort not averse to talk. “I wonder if this is the Mrs. Gardner I know,” he said easily. “What’s she like?” “Never really seen her,” returned the blonde. “Has all her meals in her suite. Goes out only at night--about nine, when everything’s dead here--just for an hour’s motor ride. She’s always in black, and veiled. Guess she’s a widow.” A little more chat and Clifford drifted into the hotel bar, from which he could watch the elevators. He sipped his Vichy with a casual, lounging air that required his best acting. Could that Mrs. Gardner be Mary Regan? And if she was Mary Regan, was she also truly Mrs. Gardner? Half an hour passed; then Loveman came out of one of the elevators. Clifford had a moment’s fear that the blonde would tell him that a caller had made inquiry for him; but the blonde was answering the questions of a guest and did not see Loveman go out. Clifford allowed a few more minutes to pass, then he approached the blonde’s cage with a brisk air. “There’s something Mr. Loveman forgot to say to Mrs. Gardner, and he asked me to come back and tell her. Just say it’s Mr. Loveman calling again.” The girl spoke through the telephone as directed; then, “You’re to go right up.” Tingling with suspense, Clifford shot up to the twelfth floor and rang the bell of Apartment M. The door was promptly opened, and without waiting for the maid to cry a warning because of this suddenly altered Mr. Loveman, Clifford walked quickly past her through a little hallway into a sitting-room. At a window, looking down into the Avenue stood a slender figure in a gown of gold-brown chiffon velvet, softly touched with fur. She was Mary Regan. “Sit down, Mr. Loveman,” she said, not turning. And then after a pause she added a bit impatiently, but in that distant, composed tone she had so often used toward him in other days: “Well, what else is there? Haven’t I already promised to follow your instructions in every detail?”