“Since you won’t tell me,” he said, stepping more squarely before her, “then I’ll tell you. Bradley came here to blackmail you; blackmail is one of Bradley’s big side-lines just now. Hilton was a follow-up man on the same business. If he wasn’t in this particular game before, he got next the other night at the Grantham. He saw you slip off your rings and hide them when Jack’s father was coming to your table. He guessed what that action meant, and it was easy for him to dig up the rest.” Clifford paused. “I’m right so far, yes?” he demanded. But she did not speak. “And I can tell you just what he said,” Clifford continued, “and how he said it--for he’s a most gentle-spoken party. It would cause him very great regret to have to tell Mr. Morton that his son had contracted a secret marriage, and it would cause him even greater regret to have to tell both the Mortons just who Mary Regan has been and just who are the members of her family. The only way he can be saved from inflicting upon himself this regret is for you to come across with a large sum of money. Well, isn’t that about it? Now will you help me out?” “I can say no more than I have said,” she replied. “Then I shall have to get him alone,” Clifford said, with grim quiet. “Him and the others.” He left her with no further word. On the way down in the elevator he recalled the fragment he had heard over the telephone; and again he stepped into the convenient privacy of the florist’s shop. Not more than two minutes had passed when he saw Peter Loveman enter one of the elevators. So it was Loveman she had been telephoning to. She had doubtless sent for the little lawyer to ask his advice--the irony of it! Clifford waited for Loveman to descend. Fifteen minutes passed--it was now getting on toward six; then into the lobby, walking eagerly, came Jack Morton. And then in the entrance, watching but discreetly unobtrusive, appeared Jack’s father. Jack’s elevator had made its trip up and had just descended, when the elder Morton crossed the lobby and addressed the elevator-man. The florist’s door stood open, so Clifford heard every word. “By the way,” said Mr. Morton, “what is the name of the gentleman, your only passenger, that you just took up? I thought I recognized him as an acquaintance.” “Mr. Grayson, sir.” “He lives here?” “Yes, sir.” “I suppose he has one of your bachelor apartments?” “No, sir. He lives here with Mrs. Grayson.” “To be sure. I didn’t know Mrs. Grayson’s health had permitted her to come back from California. Please don’t mention my having been here; they might feel hurt at my not having come up.” He slipped the man a bill and went out. Clifford realized that Mr. Morton had been engaged upon a bit of private sleuthing on his own account: which might lead to--what?