“Oh! I shall travel again for a bit,” replied John. “There are some things I want to do before I get through with this old earth, if I am to get through.” “You’ll be all right,” answered Ordway. “I only wish I had your chance. There’s my bell now. You see how it is--tied like a slave to the wheels of the chariot, etc. But good luck, anyway, and good-bye.” He gave John a friendly grasp, and as he turned away, threw the massive folded sheet, which he still held, into the waste basket. “I guess we won’t file that with the state documents,” he said laughing. “Good-bye, and good luck once more.” We parted and John and I started down the corridor. We had gone but a few steps when exclaiming, “There, I’ve left my stick,” I turned swiftly back, recovered the letter from its place in the waste basket, and emerged with my cane. Silently we walked down the broad avenue until, just before we reached my office, I turned sharply. “Come in here,” I said, dragging John into a café. We sat down at one of the small tables. “You used to do the Smithsonian and scientific stories for your paper, didn’t you?” I asked. John was sitting staring into vacancy. He paid no attention to my question and I repeated it twice before he turned nervously with a shake of the head and asked sharply, “What is it?” I repeated the question once more. “Yes,” he said abstractedly. “Well, who do you know that owns any radium?” He thought for a moment and said slowly, “Why, the Smithsonian people have a little, of course, and there’s some in half a dozen places in the city.” “But from whom could we get some most easily?” I inquired. “Oh! I know,” he answered. “Dorothy Haldane has some. She’s here in Washington working with part of her brother’s radium, and she’s with her cousin Mrs. Hartnell.” “Who’s Dorothy Haldane? Any relation to Tom Haldane who was just ahead of us, the chap who went into the Physical Laboratory at Columbia and who’s doing private research now?” “His sister. She is Barnard A. M., and his research assistant.” “Regular bluestocking,” I remarked with some dislike, for the learned research woman never appealed to me. “Oh, no,” said John. “Not at all. She is one of the prettiest, nicest girls I ever knew.” “Any feeling about your remarks, John?” I said hopefully. “Of course not,” he answered with some irritation. “There’ll never be any more feeling. Since Anna’s death there can’t be. I know you’ll like Dorothy, though. What do you want her radium for?” “There’s just a chance that I may have a scoop, and if you’ll take me up there to-night I’ll let you in.” “I’ll take you up there,” said John, “but you can have your scoop to yourself. For the last word of copy I ever write will be in print before we call.”