There was in Cowperwood’s employ at this time a young newspaper man, an ambitious spark aged twenty-six, by the name of Francis Kennedy. He had written a very intelligent article for the Sunday _Inquirer_, describing Cowperwood and his plans, and pointing out what a remarkable man he was. This pleased Cowperwood. When Kennedy called one day, announcing smartly that he was anxious to get out of reportorial work, and inquiring whether he couldn’t find something to do in the street-railway world, Cowperwood saw in him a possibly useful tool. “I’ll try you out as secretary for a while,” he said, pleasantly. “There are a few special things I want done. If you succeed in those, I may find something else for you later.” Kennedy had been working for him only a little while when he said to him one day: “Francis, did you ever hear of a young man by the name of Forbes Gurney in the newspaper world?” They were in Cowperwood’s private office. “No, sir,” replied Francis, briskly. “You have heard of an organization called the Garrick Players, haven’t you?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, Francis, do you suppose you could undertake a little piece of detective work for me, and handle it intelligently and quietly?” “I think so,” said Francis, who was the pink of perfection this morning in a brown suit, garnet tie, and sard sleeve-links. His shoes were immaculately polished, and his young, healthy face glistened. “I’ll tell you what I want you to do. There is a young actress, or amateur actress, by the name of Stephanie Platow, who frequents the studio of an artist named Cross in the New Arts Building. She may even occupy it in his absence—I don’t know. I want you to find out for me what the relations of Mr. Gurney and this woman are. I have certain business reasons for wanting to know.” Young Kennedy was all attention. “You couldn’t tell me where I could find out anything about this Mr. Gurney to begin with, could you?” he asked. “I think he is a friend of a critic here by the name of Gardner Knowles. You might ask him. I need not say that you must never mention me. “Oh, I understand that thoroughly, Mr. Cowperwood.” Young Kennedy departed, meditating. How was he to do this? With true journalistic skill he first sought other newspaper men, from whom he learned—a bit from one and a scrap from another—of the character of the Garrick Players, and of the women who belonged to it. He pretended to be writing a one-act play, which he hoped to have produced. He then visited Lane Cross’s studio, posing as a newspaper interviewer. Mr. Cross was out of town, so the elevator man said. His studio was closed. Mr. Kennedy meditated on this fact for a moment. “Does any one use his studio during the summer months?” he asked. “I believe there is a young woman who comes here—yes.” “You don’t happen to know who it is?” “Yes, I do. Her name is Platow. What do you want to know for?”