“I am sure,” he said, “that your uncle has made a wise choice.  There are some secrets too great to be in one man’s charge alone, and besides—­”

Phineas Duge lifted his hand.

“Never mind the rest,” he said.  “I have not explained those circumstances as yet to my niece.  If you are quite ready, we will take our coffee in the library.”  He turned to Virginia, who had risen at once to leave them.  “In an hour and a half exactly, Virginia,” he said, “come into the library.  Not before.”

She glanced at her watch and made a note of the hour.  Then she wandered off to one of the smaller drawing-rooms, and, to relieve a certain strain of which she was somehow conscious, she played the piano softly.  In the middle of a nocturne of Chopin’s the door was opened, and a young man was shown into the room.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “you are Miss Longworth?”

She rose at once from the piano seat.  He was not dressed for the evening, and he carried a felt hat in his hand.  Nevertheless his bearing was pleasant enough, and he seemed to her a gentleman.

“I am Miss Longworth,” she answered.  “You want to see my uncle, I suppose?  They have made a mistake in showing you in here.”

“Not at all,” he answered, with an ingratiating smile.  “I know that your uncle is very busy, so I took the liberty of asking to see you.  It is such a simple matter I required, that it was not worth while interrupting him.  My name is Carr, and I am on the World.  There was just an ordinary question or two I was going to put to your uncle, but you can answer them just as well if you will.”

“You mean you are a reporter?” she asked.

“That’s it,” he assented.  “Odd sort of life in a way, because it sends us round seeking sometimes for the most trivial information.  For instance, your uncle had a dinner-party to-night, and I have stepped round for a list of the guests.”

“I do not see,” she answered slowly, “what possible concern that can be of your paper’s.”

He smiled indulgently.

“Ah, Miss Longworth!” he said, “you have just come from the country, I believe.  You do not understand the way we do things in New York.  Your uncle is a famous man, and the public who buy papers to-day are dead keen upon knowing even the most trifling things that such men do.  In fact, I have been sent all the way up from down town simply to find out that simple matter.  Of course, I could have asked the servants, but we always prefer to get our information from one of the family where possible.  Now, let me see.  Mr. Weiss was here, of course?”

Virginia hesitated, but only for a moment.

“If you really wish for these details,” she said, “you must ask my uncle.  I do not care to tell you.”

“But say, isn’t that rather rough upon your uncle?” he asked doubtfully.  “We can’t bother him with every little thing.  Surely there can be nothing indiscreet in your giving me the names of your guests.  Most people send them to the papers themselves.”