“Yes, certainly,” nodded the clerk. “Front! To 710.” “If they are mentioned in the society notes I anticipate, however, I’ll wager they will not like it,” Chick mentally added. The bell hop in blue and brass returned in a very few minutes. “You are to come up, sir,” he announced. “This way, sir.” Chick followed him to the elevator. “They certainly apprehend nothing,” he reasoned. “They may, as Nick inferred, feel entirely safe from suspicion, or absolutely sure that their identity and connection with the robbery cannot be established. I’ll wager, however, that I can take the wind out of their sails. If they don’t weaken when they see me, or betray some sign of recognition--well, their nerve will surpass that of a wooden Indian. I’m dead sure I’m not mistaken. There is no mistaking that writing. They must be the suspected couple, in spite of the clerk’s statements about them, or I’m no judge of----” Chick had arrived at the door of the suite and his train of thought ended. The page knocked on the door, then bowed and hurried away. A voice within called agreeably: “Come in!” Chick opened the door and was met in the entrance hall by an erect, slender man in a plaid suit. His face was as fair and smooth as that of a girl. His skin was peculiarly clear and pale, though his complexion was dark and his eyes remarkably brilliant. Chick had staggered for a moment. The face was like that of Gerald Vaughn, yet not like it. The flowing, black mustache was gone, and there was no sign of it, nor of a beard, through this man’s clear, white skin. It was, too, like the photographed face of Mortimer Deland, but that was so small as to preclude positive identification. What most amazed Chick, however, was the fact that he was received without the slightest sign of recognition, without the least betrayal of perturbation, despite that his visit could not possibly have been anticipated. For all this, nevertheless, Chick instantly came to one positive conclusion--a correct one. “He’s my man!” flashed through his mind. “This is Gerald Vaughn--and Mortimer Deland. I’ll stake my life on it.” While Chick was thus taking his measure, Deland was approaching from an attractively furnished parlor, bowing and smiling. “Walk in, Mr. Alden,” said he, glancing at the card he still retained in his slender, white hand. “Walk in and have a chair. Let me introduce my wife, Mrs. Brooks.” Chick again was staggered--even more staggered than before. The woman who arose to greet him was tall and fair. She was fashionably clad. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was a deep-auburn hue. Her smile was captivating. Her teeth were like pearls. She bore not the slightest resemblance to Clarissa Vaughn. She was not even remotely suggestive of the black-veiled figure that had left the Barker residence that morning in company with Gerald Vaughn.