"No use," she mused. "There's only one thing for me to do with this and that is send it to Harrison Grant without his knowing who it came from. He can start an investigation." She folded the page torn from the book and slipped it into an envelope. Then in a painfully disguised handwriting she directed it to Harrison Grant, at the Criminology Club. She held up the envelope and surveyed the writing. "He doesn't know my writing, but if he did he would never guess this was mine. Mamette!" she called sharply. In a moment the curtain of her room was parted and a grinning black face looked in on her. Mamette had been Dixie's maid for years; in spite of her self-selected name smacking as she thought, of all that was French and gay and fashionable, she was pure African. "Mamette," Dixie repeated, "Take this letter down to the telegraph office in the next block and have a messenger deliver it at once. Be sure not to say who is sending it. Remember!" "Yas'm!" Mamette's dark hand grasped the envelope which was startingly white by contrast, and in a few minutes Dixie heard the door of the apartment slam and knew that the report which she rightfully guessed savored of intrigue boding ill for the peace of the land she served, was on its way to Harrison Grant. It reached him a half hour later by messenger, at his office. It was Jimmy McAdams, shock haired, and dreamy eyed, who ambled in and presented him with the message, and while he waited to see whether Grant wished to send an answer, Jimmy made himself comfortable in the depths of a leather chair with the nickel novel which never left him. Grant frowned over the brief report which had been the cause of Dixie Mason's dilemma. A triumphant chuckle from Jimmy aroused him. But the chuckle was merely induced by the successful effort of Old King Brady to capture the last of the counterfeiters as set forth between the lurid covers of Jimmy's nickel thriller. Grant's glance rested on him with tolerant amusement. "Keep on reading that stuff, Jimmy, and you'll be a detective before you know it." Jimmy pulled himself into his present surroundings with obvious effort. The eyes that met Grant's were still somewhat dreamy. "What? Aw gee, Mr. Grant. I wish I was a detective! I bet I could be one." "And yet you don't know where this mysterious communication you just brought me came from?" "Aw gee! Mr. Grant. How'd I know it was mysterious? I carry so many messages. How could I guess this one was goin' to be something different. Anyway that ain't got nothin' to do with the kind of detectin' I want to do. I want to be----" "Look here Jimmy," Grant had risen and crossed over to the boy, "Why don't you stop reading these nickel thrillers and put some of that excess energy into the Boy Scouts?" "Well, Mr. Grant, that ain't a bad idea. They been tryin' to get me to join. But I want to be a detective."