Mrs. Carshaw, sitting a while in deep thought after the others had gone, rang up a railway company. Atlantic City is four hours distant from New York. By hurrying over certain inquiries she wished to make, she might catch a train at midday. She drove to her lawyers. At her request a smart clerk was lent to her for a couple of hours. They consulted various records. The clerk made many notes on foolscap sheets in a large, round hand, and Mrs. Carshaw, seated in the train, read them many times through her gold-mounted lorgnette. It was five o'clock when a taxi brought her to the Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel, and Senator Meiklejohn was the most astonished man on the Jersey coast at the moment when she entered unannounced, for Mrs. Carshaw had simply said to the elevator-boy: "Take me to Senator Meiklejohn's sitting-room." Undeniably he was startled; but playing desperately for high stakes had steadied him somewhat. Perhaps the example of his stronger brother had some value, too, for he rose with sufficient affability. "What a pleasant _rencontre_, Mrs. Carshaw," he said. "I had no notion you were within a hundred miles of the Board Walk." "That is not surprising," she answered, sinking into a comfortable chair. "I have just arrived. Order me some sandwiches and a cup of tea. I'm famished." He obeyed. "I take it you have come to see me?" he said, quietly enough, though aware of a queer fluttering about the region of his heart. "Yes. I am so worried about Rex." "Dear me! The girl?" "It is always a woman. How you men must loathe us in your sane moments, if you ever have any." "I flatter myself that I am sane, yet how could I say that I loathe _your_ sex, Mrs. Carshaw?" "I wonder if your flattery will bear analysis. But there! No serious talk until I am refreshed. Do ring for some biscuits; sandwiches are apt to be slow in the cutting." Thus by pretext she kept him from direct converse until a tea-tray, with a film of _pate de fois_ coyly hidden in thin bread and butter, formed, as it were, a rampart between them. "How did you happen on my address?" he asked smilingly. It was the first shell of real warfare, and she answered in kind: "That was quite easy. The people at the detective bureau know it." The words hit him like a bullet. "The Bureau!" he cried. "Yes. The officials there are interested in the affairs of Winifred Marchbanks." He went ashen-gray, but essayed, nevertheless, to turn emotion into mere amazement. He was far too clever a man to pretend a blank negation. The situation was too strenuous for any species of ostrich device. "I seem to remember that name," he said slowly, moistening his lips with his tongue. "Of course you do. You have never forgotten it. Let us have a friendly chat about her, Senator. My son is going to marry her. That is why I am here."