Dorothy gazed silently at her questioner, then her glance traveled upward until it rested on Wyndham, and her breath forsook her. The gathering wrath in Wyndham’s eyes as he took a menacing step toward the unconscious detective acted like a douche of cold water on Dorothy’s benumbed wits. “I can explain,” she announced, her voice quivering with subdued excitement. “Miss Porter dreads publicity. She threw a cut into the well, the only cut ever made from one of her photographs, so that her picture would not appear in a newspaper.” “I-n-deed,” drawled Mitchell. “And where did Miss Porter get this--eh--cut?” “I gave it to her.” Her words brought a bellow from Harding. “What! do you mean to say you stole the cut from this office and gave it to Miss Porter?” “I did.” Harding pounded the desk. “Where’s your honesty?” he roared. “Where’s your loyalty to the newspaper that employs you?” “My loyalty belongs to the paper so long as it does not conflict with my loyalty to my friends,” answered Dorothy. “As for my honesty--I have paid for the cut.” “D-mn the money! It isn’t a question of money,” he retorted thickly. “You are fired, understand--fired!” Dorothy was on her feet instantly. “It is the managing editor who dismisses me, Mr. Harding,” she reminded him, and turned with dignity to Mitchell. “As I must turn in my copy, Mr. Mitchell, you will have to excuse me.” And closing her roll-top desk she picked up her coat and hat and joined Wyndham in the city room, where he had preceded her. She tossed her manuscript to a copy reader, and, after exchanging a word with the foreman, left the office, Wyndham in tow. The Porter limousine had driven off but a scant five minutes when Inspector North entered the Tribune building and went direct to the managing editor’s office, only to be told that he would not be there until after dinner. The inspector was making for the society editor’s office when he spied the city editor emerging from it. “Hello, Harding,” he hailed. “Miss Deane in?” “No, just gone.” Harding kicked a chair out of his way as a slight vent to his feelings. “Anything I can do for you, Inspector?” “Yes. Tell me, is Miss Dorothy Deane in mourning?” “Mourning? H--l, no! Say--” But the inspector waved a friendly farewell as he hastened toward the elevator shaft, and Harding completed his sentence with another oath. Inspector North was more fortunate in his next call, and found the Chief of the Secret Service comfortably seated in his office in the Treasury Department. “I don’t usually bring ‘lost and found’ articles to you, Chief,” he explained, taking a chair by the desk and drawing a leather handbag out of his overcoat pocket. “But I’m puzzled. What do you think of this?” Chief Connor turned the bag over and over. “Good leather,” he remarked. “Unmarked. Where did you get the bag?” “It was turned in by a conductor on the Mt. Pleasant line who found it in his car. Open it, Chief.”