Giving the Forty-eighth Street address, he stepped in and took up a position that would enable him easily to glance through the back window every now and then, and see whether he was being followed. Until they turned out of Longacre Square it was impossible to tell this with any certainty. The streets were full of taxis and motor cars, carrying people to theaters or the opera or coming away empty. But, having turned into the comparatively deserted cross street, Barry kept an extra sharp lookout. Before the taxi reached Eighth Avenue he was rewarded by seeing another car skid around from Broadway in their wake. With a slight frown of annoyance, he wondered how they had managed it. It is always more or less trying to miss a trick of any sort, and Lawrence rather prided himself on his keenness of observation. The slowing down of his car as they approached the house made him thrust the matter from his mind in favor of more agreeable things. After all, his pursuer could accomplish nothing here. Stepping out on the sidewalk, Barry told the chauffeur to wait, and ran up the steps. After a prolonged wait, a rather untidy-looking maid answered his ring, holding the door only partially open, and peering doubtfully through the crack. "Is Miss Rives at home?" Lawrence inquired. The girl stared. "Miss—who did you say?" "Miss Rives—Miss Shirley Rives!" Barry’s tone was slightly impatient. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the second taxi had crawled past, and come to a stop a few doors beyond. "She arrived last night, I believe." The maid sniffed. "It’s news to me," she remarked pertly. "Mebbe you’ve got the wrong house. There ain’t no Miss Rives, nor anybody like it, stopping here just now." Lawrence’s eyes flashed, but he restrained his anger with an effort. He had never seen quite such a stupid creature in his life. "I have made no mistake in the house," he retorted abruptly. "Kindly ask your mistress to see me for a moment." "She ain’t in." The girl’s tone was plainly triumphant. Evidently she sensed the irritation in Barry’s voice, and was glad of a chance to retaliate. For an instant Lawrence was stumped. It was intolerable that he should be cheated out of something he had been looking forward to all day by the stupidity of a saucy maid. Whether it was anything more than stupidity he did not know, but he was determined not to give in yet. "Then take my card to Miss Sally, the young lady who has your top floor front," he said tersely, slipping one hand into his pocket, and drawing forth a cardcase. The maid hesitated, frowning. For an instant it seemed as if she meant to close the door in his face, and Barry was all ready to thrust a foot into the crack. Then something in his determined expression must have decided her, for she grudgingly stood aside for him to enter. Taking out a gold pencil, Lawrence hastily scrawled a few words on his card, and handed it to her in silence.