Drew nodded to the waiting operatives in the outer room of the suite. He swung into the hallway with his brown eyes glowing like a man who walked out of realism into romance. The elevator plumbed eighteen stories. The corridor was clear. A taxi stood at the curb. Into this Drew stepped, gave the address and was gently seated as the driver released his brake, set the meter, and dropped through first, second and into third speed. Past Wall Street the taxi flashed. It rounded toward the Bowery, which showed that the driver knew his map. It struck up through the car tracks, across to Washington Park and there took the long longitude of Fifth Avenue as the shortest and quickest way up-town. Drew had no eye for the passers-by. He was repeating two words over and over like a novice counting the same beads. Montgomery Stockbridge was a name to conjure with in the Bagdad of Seven Million. He had made many enemies and much money. His wealth ran well above seven figures. The taxi came to a gliding halt. Drew stepped out in front of a church. He tossed the driver two one-dollar bills and some silver. He waited as the taxi merged in the traffic. He turned and glanced keenly up and down the Avenue. Then he hurried north for one square, paused before the mansion of turrets and towers, and pressed a button which was set in the doorway. The door opened to a crack, then wide. A butler barred the way. To him Drew said, "Mr. Stockbridge sent for me." The butler bowed with old world civility. He took the detective's hat and coat. He waited until Drew removed his gloves. He bowed for a second time and led the way over rugs whose pile was as thick as some Persian temple's. They came finally, after an aisle of old masters, to the inner circle of latter-day finance and money-wizardry--the celebrated library of Montgomery Stockbridge. The Munition Magnate sat there. He turned as the butler announced the detective. He shot a gray-thatched pair of eyes up and over a mahogany table upon which a white envelope lay. He smiled coldly. His thumb jerked toward a leather chair into which Drew sank and leaned his elbows upon the table. Stockbridge coughed dryly. He blinked and studied the detective's face for a long minute. He glanced from the envelope up at a cone of rose light which hung from a cluster of electric-globes. His expression, seen in this light, was like an aged lion brought to bay. His wrinkled skin was tawny. His hands coiled and uncoiled like claws. They moved prehensilely, as though cobwebs were in that perfumed air of wealth and security. They poised over the envelope as if to snatch the secret or delusion hidden there. "See that letter!" declared the Munition Magnate, closing his fist and banging the table. "See it? D'ye see it?" Drew widened his eyes at the outburst. He crossed his legs and nodded. "It's blackmail!" Stockbridge snarled. "Rank-scented blackmail of the cheapest order." "A threat of some kind?"