Caruth flushed. He looked very boyish to the reporter, who, scarcely older in years, was infinitely his senior in man-making experiences and responsibilities. Boyish, Caruth was without doubt, but American boys possess possibilities of rapid development that amaze the older people of the globe. “Can’t I?” he answered, between his teeth. “Perhaps not. But if she is free, I mean to try. Anyhow, I must see her. I must. You said you might be able to help me!” he finished, with a boyish appeal in his voice. The reporter rose and took up his hat. “I can give you some information,” he admitted. “Whether it will help you, is another question. You have been assuming, I believe, that the lady is a nihilist, or terrorist, or whatever they may call themselves?” “Yes. Is she not?” “God knows! She may be. On the other hand she may be an agent of the Russian Government, or she may be playing for her own hand. Europe breeds plenty of men and women--aristocrats to their finger-tips--who are driven by poverty to shady ways. Until the bloom is rubbed off, they are the most dangerous rogues living, bearers of proud names, masters of every social grace, apparently with everything to commend them, and yet rotten to the core. Europeans spot them and weed them out after a while, but we Americans are always fair game. I don’t say your Miss Fitzhugh is one of these--but she may be. An angel face is often part of a stock in trade. Be wise, Mr. Caruth. This woman has taken herself out of your life. Let her go!” But the young fellow shook his head. “I won’t believe any evil of her,” he muttered, “and, any way, I must find her.” The reporter shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, very well, then,” he said. “You’re old enough to decide for yourself. You will find her at the Women’s Hotel. She is staying there.” CHAPTER SIX The event that had driven Caruth to seek Bristow’s aid was the appearance of a man who called himself Tom Wilkins and claimed to be a brother of the deceased valet. Tom Wilkins was a tall, well built, red-faced individual with a projecting chin and small, sharp eyes. He bore a general resemblance to his brother James, but his eyes had a fiery gleam that Caruth had never noticed in those of his late valet. Perhaps the difference came by nature and perhaps by training; or perhaps there was no difference, the valet having merely hidden his soul behind discreetly down-dropped lids. Since he had played the trick that had led to his death, Caruth had been very uncertain as to his real character.