"Or the Bureau?" "Mr. Clancy, you annoy me." Clancy stood up. "I must duck your coffee, Senator," he said cheerfully. "Is Miss Craik on the phone?" "No. She is poor, and lives alone--or, to be correct, with a niece, I believe." "Well, think matters over. I'll see you again soon. Then you may be able to tell me some more." "I have told you everything." "Perhaps _I_ may do the telling." "Now, as to this poor woman, Miss Craik. You will not adopt harsh measures, I trust?" "We are never harsh, Senator. If she speaks the truth, and all the truth, she need not fear." In the hall Clancy met the valet, carrying a laden tray. "Do you make good coffee, Phillips?" he inquired. "I try to," smiled the other. "Ah, that's modest--that's the way real genius speaks. Sorry I can't sample your brew to-day. So few Englishmen know the first thing about coffee." "Nice, friendly little chap," was Phillips's opinion of the detective. Senator Meiklejohn's description of the same person was widely different. When Clancy went out, he, too, rose and stretched his stiff limbs. "I got rid of that little rat more easily than I expected," he mused--that is to say, the Senator's thoughts may be estimated in some such phrase. But he was grievously mistaken in his belief. Clancy was no rat, but a most stubborn terrier when there were rats around. While Meiklejohn was drinking his coffee the telephone rang. It was Mrs. Tower. She was heartbroken, or professed to be, since no more selfish woman existed in New York. "Are you coming to see me?" she wailed. "Yes, yes, later in the day. At present I dare not. I am too unhinged. Oh, Helen, what a tragedy! Have you any news?" "News! My God! What news can I hope for except that Ronald's poor, maimed body has been found?" "Helen, this is terrible. Bear up!" "I'm doing my best. I can hardly believe that this thing has really happened. Help me in one small way, Senator. Telephone Mr. Jacob and explain why our luncheon is postponed." "Yes, I'll do that." Meiklejohn smiled grimly as he hung up the receiver. In the midst of her tribulations Helen Tower had not forgotten Jacob and the little business of the Costa Rica Cotton Concession! The luncheon was only "postponed." An inquiry came from a newspaper, whereupon he gave a curt order that no more calls were to be made that day, as the apartment would be empty. He dressed, and devoted himself forthwith to the task of overhauling papers. He had a fire kindled in the library. Hour after hour he worked, until the grate was littered with the ashes of destroyed documents. Sending for newspapers, he read of Rachel Craik's arrest. At last, when the light waned, he looked at his watch. Should he not face his fellow-members at the Four Hundred Club? Would it not betray weakness to shirk the ordeal of inquiry, of friendly scrutiny and half-spoken wonder that he, the irreproachable, should be mixed up in such a weird tragedy. Once he sought support from a decanter of brandy.