her from the back.  The elevator boy was too quick for her.  And at the station they couldn’t get the woman to say a word; she pretends not to understand or to speak anything they’ve tried.  She’s got Amory hypnotized too—­he thinks she can’t.  And when they searched her,” went on Chillingworth with enjoyment, “they found her dressed in silk and cloth of gold, and loaded down with all sorts of barbarous ornaments, with almost priceless jewels.  Miss Holland claims that she never saw or heard of the woman before.  Now, what do you make of it?” he demanded, unconcernedly draining his glass.

“Splendid,” cried St. George in unfeigned interest.  “I say, splendid.  Did you see the woman?” he asked Amory.

Amory nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “Andy fixed that for me.  But she never said a word.  I parlez-voused her, and verstehen-Sied her, and she sighed and turned her head.”

“Did you see the heiress?” St. George asked.

“Not I,” mourned Amory, “not to talk with, that is.  I happened to be hanging up in the hall there the afternoon it occurred;” he modestly explained.

“What luck,” St. George commented with genuine envy.  “It’s a stunning story.  Who is Miss Holland?”

“She’s lived there for a year or more with her aunt,” said Chillingworth.  “She is a New Yorker and an heiress and a great beauty—­oh, all the properties are there, but they’re all we’ve got.  What do you make of it?” he repeated.

St. George did not answer, and every one else did.

“Mistaken identity,” said Little Cawthorne.  “Do you remember Provin’s story of the woman whose maid shot a masseuse whom she took to be her mistress; and the woman forgave the shooting and seemed to have her arrested chiefly because she had mistaken her for a masseuse?”

“Too easy, Cawthorne,” said Chillingworth.

“The woman is probably an Italian,” said the telegraph editor, “doing one of her Mafia stunts.  It’s time they left the politicians alone and threw bombs at the bonds that back them.”

“Hey, Carbury.  Stop writing heads,” said Chillingworth.

“Has Miss Holland lived abroad?” asked Crass, the feature man.  “Maybe this woman was her nurse or ayah or something who got fond of her charge, and when they took it away years ago, she devoted her life to trying to find it in America.  And when she got here she wasn’t able to make herself known to her, and rather than let any one else—­”

“No more space-grabbing, Crass,” warned Chillingworth.

“Maybe,” ventured Horace, “the young lady did settlement work and read to the woman’s kid, and the kid died, and the woman thought she’d said a charm over it.”

Chillingworth grinned affectionately.

“Hold up,” he commanded, “or you’ll recall the very words of the charm.”

Bennietod gasped and stared.

“Now, Bennietod?” Amory encouraged him.

“I t’ink,” said the lad, “if she’s a heiress, dis yere dagger-plunger is her mudder dat’s been shut up in a mad-house to a fare-you-well.”