That was sufficient for Norton. "Your master knew me. He also knew that I am not a man who promises lightly. Now introduce me to the daughter." With plain reluctance Jones went about the affair. Norton put a dozen perfunctory questions to the girl. What he was in search of was not news but the sound of her voice. In that quarter of an hour he felt his heart disturbed as it had never before been disturbed. "Now, Mr. Norton," said Jones gloomily, "will you be so kind as to follow me?" Norton was led to Jones' bedroom. The butler-valet closed the door and drew the window shade. Always seeking shadows. This did not impress the reporter at the time; he had no other thought but the story. Jones then sat down beside the reporter and talked in an undertone. When he had done he took Norton by the elbow and gently but forcibly led him down to the front door and ushered him forth. Norton jumped into his taxicab and returned to his rooms, which were at the top of the huge apartment hotel. He immediately called up his managing editor. "Hello! This is Norton. Put Griffin on the Hargreave yarn. I'm off on another deal." "But Hargreave was a friend of yours," protested the managing editor. "I know it. But you know me well enough, Mr. Blair. I should not ask the transfer if it was not vitally important." "Oh, very well." "We shan't be scooped." "If you can promise that, I don't care who works on the job. Will you be in the office to-night?" "If nothing prevents me." "Well, good-by." Norton filled his pipe, drew his chair to the window, and stared at the great liner going down to sea. "Lord, lord!" he murmured. Then he smiled and chuckled. Some bright morning he would have all New York by the ears, the police running round in circles, and the chiefs of the rival sheets tearing their hair. What a story! Four columns on the first page, and two whole pages Sunday.... And all of a sudden he ceased to smile and chuckle. In the living room of the Countess Olga Perigoff's apartment the mistress lay reading on the divan. There was no cigarette between her well shaped lips, for she was not the accepted type of adventuress. In fact, she was not an adventuress; she was really the Countess Perigoff. Her maiden name had been Olga Pushkin; but more of that later. When Braine came in he found her dreaming with half-closed eyes. He flourished an evening newspaper. "Olga, even the best of us make mistakes. Here, just glance over this." The Russian accepted the newspaper and read the heading indicated: "Aeronaut picked up far out at sea. Slips ashore from tramp steamer. Had five thousand in cash in his pockets." "Hargreave escaped!" "Not necessarily," she replied. "If it was Hargreave he would have had more than five thousand in his pockets. My friend, I believe it an attempt to fool you; or it is another man entirely." She clicked her teeth with the tops of her polished nails.