For answer, he placed the newspaper in her hands, and pointed to the headline at the top of the page. “Read it, Frieda. Read this first.” He sat on the edge of the table, his arms folded across his breast, and waited for her to finish. At last the paper fell from her fingers and she looked up into his face. Her eyes were bleak. “I can't believe it, Davenport,--I will not believe it of Derrol Steele.” “As soon as I saw the paper,--about two o'clock, I should say,--I hurried over to the United States Attorney's office. The story is true, Frieda. It appears that a secret service agent--'gad, how marvellous they are!--an agent overheard scraps of a conversation between two men late last night,--in front of a little French restaurant, I think it was. Steele's name was mentioned two or three times. He was not interested, however, until he heard them speak of a man long suspected by the department. Then he pricked up his ears. The marshal did not repeat the name, for obvious reasons. The man heard enough to convince him that this suspect and one or two other men were to be at Steele's apartment before three o'clock this morning. The address was carefully, precisely given by one of the men, who was very greatly agitated. Captain Steele had vital information in his possession,--that much, at least, the listener was able to grasp. One sentence he heard distinctly. I recall it clearly. 'Tomorrow will be too late,' This was enough for the agent. He was too clever to arrest these men on the spot. The way was clear for the seizure of at least four or five men, including an officer in the United States Army. So he--are you listening, dear?” “Yes, yes!” she replied, as if waking from a dream. “This agent had been set there to watch for a man and a woman, posing as French people, who are under surveillance. As soon as the speakers parted, he rushed up the street to an hotel, and called up headquarters. This was too big a thing to be sidetracked for the French couple. Several operatives were dispatched immediately to assist him. They went to the building where Derrol lives--or lived. They seized the driver of the taxi-cab, but the others evidently got wind of the raid, for when they went up to Steele's apartment, hoping to catch them in the place with him, they found him alone. He had slipped a bath gown over his pajamas and was undoubtedly waiting for his fellow-conspirators. He realized in an instant that he was trapped. They smashed in the door. While the violent noise was going on, he shot himself. They did not hear the report, however, due to the clatter and to the fact that there was a silencer on the revolver. There was the faintest sign of a pulse, indicating that the shot had been fired only a minute or two before they burst in and discovered him sitting in a chair not twenty feet from the door.” The tears rolled down the cheeks of Davenport Carstairs. His voice broke. “I can't believe it of him, Frieda,--I can't believe it.”