He opened it and glanced out into the hall, throwing the bolt as he came back.

“All right, Celeste, but I wouldn’t talk quite so loud; the partitions are not very tight.”

“No objections to a cigarette, I suppose,” and she produced a case.  “Thanks; now I feel better—­certainly, light up.  Well, Ned, the first thing I want to know is, who is this other New York skirt, and how did she happen to blow in here just at this time?”

Beaton completed the lighting of his cigar, flinging the match carelessly out of the window.

“Oh, she’s all right,” he said easily.  “Just an innocent kid writer for Scribbler’s who’s trying to make good writing about the beautiful scenery around here.  I was a bit suspicious of her at first myself, but picked her up this morning an’ we had quite a talk.  Mighty pretty little girl.”

Miss La Rue elevated her eyebrows, watchfully regarding him through smoke wreaths.

“Oh, cut it, Ned,” she exclaimed curtly.  “We all know you are a perfect devil with the women.  The poor thing is in love with you, no doubt, but that doesn’t answer my question, who is she?”

“Her name is Donovan.”

“That sounds promising; what do you make it, shanty Irish?”

“I should say not,” warmly.  “She’s a lady, all right.  Oh, I know ’em, if I don’t meet many of that kind.  We got chummy enough, so she told me all about herself—­her father’s a big contractor and has money to burn.”

“Did you ever hear the beat of that, Enright?  Neddy is about to feather his nest.  Well, go on.”

“That’s about all, I guess, only she ain’t nothin’ you need be afraid of.”

“Sure not, with a watch-dog like you on guard.  But if you ask me, I don’t like the idea of her happening in here just at this time.  This is no place for an innocent child,” and she looked about, her lip curling.  “Lord, I should say not.  Do you happen to remember any New York contractor by that name, Mr. Enright?”

The rotund lawyer, his feet elevated on the window-sill, a cigar between his lips, shook his head in emphatic dissent.

“Not lately; there was a Tim Donovan who had a pull in the subway excavation—­he was a Tammany man—­but he died, and was never married.  There may have been others, of course, but I had tab on most of them.  Did she mention his name, Beaton?”

“No; anyhow, I don’t remember.”

“What’s the girl look like?”

“Rather slender, with brown hair, sorter coppery in the sun, and grey eyes that grow dark when she’s interested.  About twenty-three or four, I should say.  She’s a good-looker, all right; and not a bit stuck up.”

“Did you get her full name?”

“Sure; it’s on the register—­Stella Donovan.”

Enright lowered his feet to the floor, a puzzled look un his face, his teeth clinched on his cigar.

“Hold on a bit till I think.” he muttered.  “That sounds mighty familiar—­Stella Donovan!  My God, I’ve heard that name before somewhere; ah, I have it—­she’s on the New York Star.  I’ve seen her name signed to articles in the Sunday edition.”  He wheeled and faced Miss La Rue.  “Do you remember them?”