“If you are set on getting married, Nina dear, I’ll help you find another candidate,” said Loveman in his soft, advisory tone. “This town’s full of rich young fellows. Just look ’em over, make your choice, and I’ll help you out with the rest.” “I don’t want any other!” “I don’t think Jack Morton will do, my dear.” “Why not?” “I think, dearie, that there are other arrangements--” “You mean that you have other arrangements!” she said sharply. “There now, dearie, don’t get excited. This town’s full of nice men--” “You can’t bluff me, Peter! I see through you--you don’t want me to marry Jack.” The little _ingénue_ was suddenly a little fury--but a composed fury. “Peter, I know a lot,” she said quietly, “and unless you behave about the way I want you to, I may do something that won’t make you awfully happy.” There was no mistaking the threat in that voice, and that threat was not to be underrated. Loveman had no intention of yielding; the situation required careful handling and perhaps quick action elsewhere; in the meantime the thing to do was to temporize. “All right, dearie,--we’ll fix it up,” he said soothingly. “There’s Jack Morton waiting for us; I’ll turn you right over to him.” As Clifford saw Nina and young Morton begin a fox-trot, a passing waiter handed Clifford a card. On it was engraved, “_Mr. James Morton_,” and around the name was scribbled, “Wait for me in the lounge just off the bar.” Clifford descended to the Grantham’s lounge, which was fitted in the manner of the smartest and most exclusive of men’s clubs. Five minutes later Mr. Morton entered and came straight to him. Clifford had already made his private estimate of this man with the graying hair and distinguished face: a man whose habit it was to buy men,--and women, too,--use them, and when finished with them, throw them aside without a thought and go on his way. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Clifford,” he began, when they were seated in deep chairs beside a little table. “They say you are a detective who’s absolutely on the square.” “Thank you,” said Clifford. “I didn’t call you down to pay you compliments,” the other said incisively, eyeing him keenly, “so I’ll go right to the point. You know my son?” “Yes.” “It’s about Jack I want to see you.” Mr. Morton spoke in the compact sentences of a master of affairs. “I guess you know he’s been some trouble. I’m certain something’s in the air now. I don’t know whether it’s that Miss Cordova or something else. I can’t get anything out of Jack. I’ve been having him looked over by a private detective; you know him--Bradley; but Bradley doesn’t seem to be able to learn anything either. I’m not one hundred per cent trustful of Bradley: set a detective to catch a detective--that might prove a good idea. Will you undertake the job?--finding out about Bradley, and finding out about my son?”