This happened to be the first time Simone had ever been to the office at night. It was in a cross-town street, within possible walking distance of the Phayre house; and this was luck for her, as she would have taken a taxi with great reluctance. This errand of hers was the most ticklish she had ever carried out, and she could not afford to leave the least detail to chance, in case a hue and cry should be raised by the Claremanaghs. Twenty minutes' brisk walk brought her to the door of what had once been a private house, and was now given up to offices. The _Inner Circle_ occupied the two lower floors, and above was quite a well-known, though not very fashionable, manicurist, Madame Veno. Still higher, the fourth (and top) floor was tenanted by a wig maker who widely advertised a hair-dye "Goldenglints"; and once, when a wave of rage against the "Whisperer" swept New York, it was rumoured that both these businesses were secretly owned by the _Inner Circle_. No proof was obtainable, however, and since then several new managers had come and gone, both for Madame Veno and "Goldenglints." To-night the whole house front looked so darkly brooding to Simone's worried eyes that she could have believed anything of it, especially anything that was hideous and evil. There were no lights in the windows, and the front door, always open by day, was closed. But the voice which answered Simone's call on the 'phone that afternoon had warned her that this would be so, and had told her what to do. Following instructions, she descended the steps to a basement door, and touched an electric bell above which, on a small brass plate, was the word "Janitor." Two or three minutes passed, and brought no answer. But suddenly, as Simone was about to ring again, the door opened on a chain. "What do you want?" a woman's voice demanded through the aperture. "To see the editor of the _Inner Circle_," replied Simone. "I have an appointment with him." "Oh! What is your name?" questioned the voice. "Mademoiselle Simone Amaranthe." The chain fell, and the door opened as if the Frenchwoman, challenged, had given the countersign. Simone squeezed through the small space allowed her, and the door instantly shut. It was dark in the basement passage except for the light that came from a room at the back. The woman--the janitor's wife, perhaps--had a little knitted shawl over her head, as though she were suffering from neuralgia. Simone could not see what she was like, whether old or young, except that her silhouette loomed tall and slender against the dim light. "Can you find your way up?" asked the voice. "Yes," said Simone, "I was told it would be dark,--and that I must bring an electric torch. I have brought it." "Very well. Go up, and knock when you come to the door. Mr. Jones is expecting you." Simone switched on the flame of her torch, and went up. CHAPTER XI IN JACK'S PRIVATE SITTING ROOM