The men left her alone, but she could hear them close and bolt the door behind them. All was as silent as the grave. Outside, from the distance, she could hear dimly the roll of wheels and the noise of the trollies, but that was all. She tried to tear off the covering that had been put on her head, and found she had no difficulty in drawing it off. There was no light in the room save that which entered through the windows from the street. It was little, but sufficient to see that the room she was in was barely furnished. There was a table and two chairs. That was all. She went to a window and saw that it looked out on the street, but could see no one there. She examined her pockets and her dress. There had been no attempt to take anything from her. Her revolver still rested safely in her pocket. She felt more secure when she found this had been left to her. She also drew from her pocket what she had forgotten she had—a blank form for a telegram and the stump of a pencil. Her pocketbook was secure also. Hearing a noise without the window she went to it again to see that a young lad was crawling along the coping. Trying to throw up the sash, she found it was nailed fast. Winding her handkerchief about her hand, so that it would not be cut, she broke a pane of glass and thrust her head through it. The boy was startled and seemed as if he were going to crawl back. “Who are you?” asked Ida. “Did they lock youse up there?” asked the boy. “Yes; how did you know?” “I was on the stairs and seed ’em.” A thought occurred to Ida. She asked: “Will you do something for me?” “If I kin.” Ida took out her pocketbook, and, handing a bill to the lad, said: “Here’s a dollar. I want you to take a telegram for me. It will cost a quarter. The rest of the money shall be yours. Will you take the paper to the telegraph office?” “Sure. Where’s de paper?” “I’ll write it.” Ida hurried to the table and filled in the address of Chick, at Nick Carter’s, in New York. Then she wrote these words: “Am in trouble.” She had only gotten so far when she heard quick steps in the hall without, approaching her door. Without waiting further she rushed to the window and thrust the telegram she had written out of the window to the boy, who snatched it and crawled away in a hurry. Ida went back to the table, her hand on her revolver. The bolts were withdrawn and a man entered the room. At a glance Ida saw that he was disguised, and not skillfully at that. He crossed the room to where she was standing, the table between them, and stood looking at her intently a moment or two. Ida returned his gaze. Neither spoke for a while. Then the man said: “You are Nick Carter’s Ida. What is your business here?” “I have none,” said Ida. “I was brought here against my will.” “I mean in Philadelphia.” “That is my business.” “Answer me, or it will be worse for you. You are here on the Ethel Romney case.” “Suppose I am, what then?” asked Ida, boldly.