“Enright, you say?  No, I think not.  He claimed to know me?  That is rather strange.  Who did he think I was?”

Miss La Rue bit her lip.  She had found her match evidently, but would strike harder.

“A reporter on the Star.  Naturally we couldn’t help wondering what you was doing out here.  You are in the newspaper business, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” realising further concealment was useless, “but on my vacation.  I thought I explained all that to Mr. Beaton.  I am not exactly a reporter.  I am what they call a special writer—­sometimes write for magazines like Scribbler’s, other times for newspapers.  I do feature-stuff.”

“Whatever that is.”

“Human-interest stories; anything unusual; strange happenings in every-day life, you know.”

“Murders, and—­and robberies.”

“Occasionally, if they are out of the ordinary.”  She took a swift breath, and made the plunge.  “Like the Frederick Cavendish case—­do you remember that?”

Miss La Rue stared at her across the darkening room, but if she changed colour the gloom concealed it, and her voice was steady enough.

“No,” she said shortly, “I never read those things.  What happened?”

“Oh, nothing much.  It occurred to my mind because it was about the last thing I worked on before leaving home.  He was very rich, and was found dead in his apartments at the Waldron—­evidently killed by a burglar.”

“Did they get the fellow?”

“No, there was no clue; the case is probably forgotten by this time.  Let’s speak about something else—­I hate to talk shop.”

Miss La Rue stood up, and shook out her skirt.

“That’s what I say; and it seems to me it would be more social if we had something to drink.  You ain’t too nice to partake of a cocktail, are you?  Good!  Then we’ll have one.  What’s the hotelkeeper’s name?”

“Timmons.”

“Do you suppose he’d come up if I pounded on the floor?”

Miss Donovan slipped off the bed.

“I don’t believe he is in the office.  He went up the street just before dark.  You light the lamp while I’ll see if I can find the Chinaman out in the hall.”

She closed the door behind her, strode noisily down the hall, then silently and swiftly retraced her steps and stooped silently down to where a crack yawned in the lower panel.  That same instant a match flared within the room and was applied to the wick of the lamp.  The narrow opening gave only a glimpse of half the room—­the wash-stand, the chair, and lower part of the bed.  She saw Miss La Rue drop the match, then open her valise and go through it, swiftly.  She found nothing, and turned to the wash-stand drawer.  The latter was empty, and was instantly closed again, the girl staring about the room, as though at her wit’s end.  Suddenly she disappeared along the edge of the bed, beyond the radius of the crack in the door.  What was it she was doing?  Searching the bed, no doubt; seeking something hidden beneath the pillow, or mattress.