The woman threw out her hands. “Don’t I know it?” she flamed. “But I’ve got to see him for myself. How do either you or I know that he is your valet’s brother? How do we know that he is not an agent of the man who killed your valet? Russia has many spies as improbable as he. Probably he is what he purports to be, but I must see him and judge for myself. And I must see that letter--the whole of it. There is no other way. Somebody must do the bargaining. No, I must see him. Do you know where to find him?” “Certainly. He is asleep in his brother’s room at my apartment now.” “Then have him ready at ten to-morrow morning. Be at the door of your building at the moment, neither too soon nor too late. A motor will pick you up and take you to a safe place where I will meet you.” CHAPTER EIGHT As the clock struck ten the next morning, Caruth, with Tom Wilkins at his heels, stepped from the elevator in the Chimneystack Building and walked to the great entrance. Just as he reached it a red automobile drew up at the curb. Caruth motioned Wilkins into it, and jumped in behind him; and before he had time even to take his seat the machine was off. Caruth, glancing back expectantly, was somewhat surprised to see that his hasty departure had apparently roused no interest. The spies in attendance, if spies there were, either did not care to follow or recognized the hopelessness of attempting to do so. After racing northward for several blocks, the motor turned into a side street, ran east past two or three streets, and, once more turning, sped downtown, finally stopping at the ladies’ entrance of one of the big Broadway hotels. Caruth laughed to himself as he got out. Anything less like the mysterious Nihilistic rendezvous at which he had expected to land could scarcely be conceived. Still less excitement remained in the venture when, after sending up his card by a very matter-of-fact bell-boy, the two were shown into a parlor and allowed to wait for a very characteristically feminine interval. If the plainsman felt out of place in surroundings which must have been wholly new to him, at least he did not show it. His face was as expressionless as a poker player’s, and he carried himself as if he owned the place, seemingly unconscious of his ill-fitting, ready-made clothing, and of the heavy boots that clattered loudly on the polished floors. Caruth had told him little as to the object of their visit, merely saying that the lady on whom they were to call had something to say that might throw light on the object of his search. Wilkins had asked no questions. His small, furtive eyes had rested for a moment on the younger man’s face, and then he had nodded. “I’m your potato,” he remarked. Miss Fitzhugh kept the two waiting for a time which seemed long to the plainsman, unused as he was to the intricacies of the feminine toilet. When she swept in at last, her appearance made both men catch their breath, Caruth not less than the unsophisticated Westerner.