“It is,” said the fat man, and Jim saw his hand shake as he raised it to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. But he was firm enough, for all that. “It is extremely sudden, but—it is—advisable.” “More advantageous time, I suppose?” said Teddy, watching him with seeming indifference. “Yes, yes,” said the fat man eagerly, and his hand shook more than ever. “More advantageous time! Meanwhile, if you care to interview Mrs. Blankley——” Barrison pricked up his ears. Mrs. Blankley! “She—I—we would be glad to be mentioned in your paper,” went on the fat man hurriedly. “You could hardly give your space to a more scintillating—a more——” “Nick,” said Rita the Daredevil shortly, “I don’t want to be interviewed. You arranged with Coyne for this gentleman to come, representing his paper, but I don’t stand for it. You never can get it out of your head that we’re not running our own show any longer, and that the public doesn’t care a continental about us. You keep hanging on to the old stuff. You keep thinking that because you used to be a big noise in your own little gramophone, you’re loud enough to take in Broadway nowadays. It doesn’t get across, Nick. If these gentlemen want a story,” and her voice was keen and bitter, “they’d better get after something else.” “Miss—er—I mean, Mrs. Blankley,” said Teddy, “weren’t you hurt, when that bullet exploded to-night?” She changed color; oh, yes, she did change color. But she said with a swiftness that made Jim Barrison admire her the more: “That? Oh, that was just advertising! Didn’t you guess?” Teddy Lucas looked at her. “H’m!” he said, deliberating. “I confess I did think it was advertising at first, but——” Rita looked strange; for a moment it seemed that she was going to strike the newspaper man. Then she let her heavy, dark eyes sink, and turned away with a muttered remark that none of them could catch. It was Jim’s moment; the only moment that had been put straight into his hands that night. He seized it boldly. The fat man was talking nervously and volubly to the reporter; there was a chance. “Miss Wrenn,” said Jim Barrison deliberately, “will you let me talk to you alone?” He never forgot the look that came into those big black eyes, as she raised them then to meet his. He could not have told whether it was horror or hatred, but he was sure that it was one or the other. For a full half minute she stared at him so, her face white as chalk. Then she drew a deep breath, and took a step back. “Since I must,” she said, answering his request. “But I warn you, it will be to very little purpose—I know why you are here. Do you truly think that—this—this investigation—is worth your while?” “I don’t know that,” he said steadily, but still in a voice that was audible to her alone. “I only know that it is necessary; that it is my duty. I know that you are the girl I am seeking. Your name is Wrenn. Is it not?” “It is,” she replied. “Marita Wrenn!”