"My detectives assure me they are on the right track," she said carelessly. "All I ask of you, as I have of every one, is to keep this unfortunate occurrence to yourself." Beecher had been on the point of informing her of his retaining McKenna, confident of her approval. Ignorant as he was of Mrs. Kildair’s dread that Slade’s ownership of the ring might come to light, with all the consequent public misunderstanding, he was disagreeably impressed by her announcement. He did not for one moment believe her statement that the right clue had been found. All he understood was that, for some reason, she desired to keep him out of the case, and this understanding irritated him. And the introduction of Slade at what he had considered his privileged hour annoyed him even more. His curiosity increased twofold as he was forced to retain his information. Then he remembered McKenna’s hint, and said carelessly: "By Jove, that reminds me—I want the address of your detective agency." She raised her eyes very slowly, and her glance rested on his for a full moment. "Why do you ask that?" she said. He repeated the story he had prepared of a friend’s demand, mentioning Gunther’s name. Mrs. Kildair rose as though reluctantly, motioning him to wait, and, going to her room, returned after a long moment with an address on a slip of paper. "There, Teddy," she said, giving it to him. Her manner had completely changed. She was again the Rita Kildair who treated him _en camarade_. "You are disappointed in not working out an exciting mystery," she said, laughing. "Do you know, Teddy, I am quite surprised at you." "How so?" he said warily. "I should have thought by this time you would have engaged half the detectives in New York," she said, turning from him to arrange the cushions at her back. "And here you have done nothing." Beecher was not deceived by the innocence of the interrogation. In the last days his wits had been trained by contact with different feminine personalities. He understood that she wished to find out what he had done and assumed at once an attitude of boyish candor. "It’s not my fault, Rita," he said contritely. "You put me off—you remember." "That’s so," she said. She motioned to him with a little gesture of her fingers and indicated a chair at her side. "Come here, you great boy," she said, smiling. "You are furious at me, aren’t you?" "Why?" he said, sitting near her, with a resolve to resist all her curiosity. "You like to be the confidant of pretty women, Teddy," she said, laughing as he blushed. "To be on the inside—to know what others can’t. Well, you shan’t be deprived." He looked at her in surprise. "What I told you is not true," she said candidly. "I have no clue, as yet, and am quite in the dark. I give you permission to do all you can. You see," she continued, holding out her hand with a charming smile, "I give you my full confidence—confidence for confidence—_n’est ce pas_?"