Night after night we held long conversations over our telephone, comparing notes so as to avoid each other’s tracks as much as possible. In this way we seldom saw each other. However, I came across his traces once or twice. In answer to a charming letter from Mrs. Furneau, I called and did my best to convince her that I had given up all hope of finding Margaret. I was cynical, disillusioned and self-centered to a point where I wondered how she could stand having me in the house. However, she was most charming and sympathetic, introduced me to a number of her friends and invited me to become a regular caller at her pretty brown-stone house. She had a distinct charm of manner, arising from her perfect confidence in herself and her power to please, and I found her circle a wide one and promising for my purpose. Here one afternoon, much to my amazement, I overheard two feminine social butterflies discussing Moore. “You know, my dear, he must have heaps of money to keep that place going—and he never works except at his sculpting, and I’m sure he never makes any money at that.” “They say he’s fearfully dissipated,” cut in the other. “But I thought he was charming. Such a bored air and so perfectly self-possessed. He told me that I understood him as no one else did.” “Yes, I dare say,” answered the first, unsheathing a claw. “He really needs some pure young thing like you to take him in hand and reform him. It’s such a pity to see him going to pieces like that.” At this point I moved away, overcome by my emotions; but I repeated the whole conversation to Moore later on and advised him to seize his chance of reform if she gave it to him. But it was about ten days after we first launched ourselves upon society that Moore got what he believed to be our first clew. I had come home late from a small private dance, bewildered and bored by the shifting panorama of small intrigues and light love affairs impossible to avoid seeing. I sat in my bedroom, slowly undressing and wondering what future lay ahead for these girls when some of their charm was gone, when I heard the familiar buzz of our private line. This must be something special, because we had already compared notes of our evening’s plans at dinner-time. Moore’s voice was tense. “Hello, Clayton? Good! Damned glad you’re home. Old man, I think there’s something stirring at last!” “Great! What is it?” “Well, you know I went up to a party on Riverside Drive to-night. My host made his pile doing construction work for innocent and confiding suburban municipalities. Now I guess he’s trying to drown his memories in one of the finest cellars in New York and finding plenty of friends to help him. I never saw him before and I never want to see him again, except in the way of our business, but I got what I think is a clew there, and that’s the main thing.” “Go on, I’m listening.”