John Cleland signed the cheque which he had filled in, laid it on the desk, closed his cheque-book, and shook his head. "I’m a busy man," he said briefly. "Oh, I’m sorry! I _wish_ you had time to see her for a moment. You may obtain permission through the Manhattan Charities Concern, a separate organization, winch turns over certain cases to the excellent child-placing agency connected with our corporation." "Thank you; I haven’t time." "Mr. Chiltern Grismer would be the best man to see—if you had time." "Thank you." There was a chilly silence; Cleland stood frowning at space, wrapped in gloomy preoccupation. "But," added the capable young woman, wistfully, "if you are so busy that you have no time to bother with this case personally——" "I _have_ time," snapped Cleland, turning red. For the man was burdened with the inconvenient honesty of his race—a sort of tactless truthfulness which characterized all Clelands. He said: "When I informed you that I’m a busy man, I evidently but unintentionally misled you. I’m not in business. I _have_ time. I simply don’t wish to go into the slums to see somebody’s perfectly strange offspring." The amazed young woman listened, hesitated, then threw back her pretty head and laughed: "Mr. Cleland, your frankness is most refreshing! Certainly there is no necessity for you to go if you don’t wish to. The little girl will be _most_ grateful to you for this generous cheque, and happy to be relieved of the haunting terror that has made her almost ill at the prospect of an orphanage. The child will be beside herself with joy when she gets word from us that she need not lose the only home and the only friends she has ever known. Thank you—for little Stephanie Quest." "What did the _other_ people do to her?" inquired John Cleland, buttoning his gloves and still scowling absently at nothing. "What people?" "The ones who—her parents, I mean. What was it they did to her?" "They were dreadfully inhuman——" "_What_ did they do to the child? Do you know?" "Yes, I know, Mr. Cleland. They beat her mercilessly when they happened to be crazed by drugs; they neglected her when sober. The little thing was a mass of cuts and sores and bruises when we investigated her case; two of her ribs had been broken, somehow or other, and were not yet healed——" "Oh, Lord!" he interrupted sharply. "That’s enough of such devilish detail!—— I beg your pardon, but such things—annoy me. Also I’ve some business that’s waiting—or pleasure, whichever you choose to call it——" He glanced at his watch, thinking of the exhibition at Christensen’s, and the several rival and hawk-like amateurs who certainly would be prowling around there, deriding him for his absence and looking for loot. "Where does that child live?" he added carelessly, buttoning his overcoat. The capable young woman, who had been regarding him with suppressed amusement, wrote out the address on a pad, tore off the leaf, and handed it to him.