“They have asked me to carry a note to Mr. Hanford’s studio,” she said quietly, “and without letting them know that I know anything about it I have agreed to do so.”

“Miss Ashton,” said Kennedy, greatly relieved, “you’re a trump.”

“No,” she replied, smiling faintly, “I’m just feminine enough to be curious.”

Craig shook his head, but did not dispute the point.  “After you have handed the envelope to the person, whoever it may be, in Hanford’s studio, wait until he does something—­er,—­suspicious.  Meanwhile look at the wall on the side toward the next vacant office.  To the left of the big calendar you will see a light pencil mark, a cross.  Somehow you must contrive to get near it, but don’t stand in front of it.  Then if anything happens stick this little number 10 needle in the wall right at the intersection of the cross.  Withdraw it quickly, count fifteen, then put this little sticker over the cross, and get out as best you can, though we shan’t be far away if you should need us.  That’s all.”

We did not accompany her to the studio for fear of being observed, but waited impatiently in the next office.  We could hear nothing of what was said, but when a door shut and it was evident that she had gone, Kennedy quickly removed something from the box in the wall covered with a black cloth.

As soon as it was safe Kennedy had sent me posting after her to secure copies of the incriminating photographs which were to be carried by her from the studio, while he remained to see who came out.  I thought a change had come over her as she handed me the package with the request that I carry it to Mr. Bennett and get them from him.

The first inkling I had that Kennedy had at last been able to trace back something in the mysterious doings of the past two days came the following evening, when Craig remarked casually that he would like to have me call on Billy McLoughlin if I had no engagement.  I replied that I had none—­and managed to squirm out of the one I really had.

The Boss’s office was full of politicians, for it was the eve of “dough day,” when the purse strings were loosed and a flood of potent argument poured forth to turn the tide of election.  Hanford was there with the other ward heelers.

“Mr. McLoughlin,” began Kennedy quietly, when we were seated alone with Hanford in the little sanctum of the Boss, “you will pardon me if I seem a little slow in coming to the business that has brought me here to-night.  First of all, I may say, and you, Hanford, being a photographer will appreciate it, that ever since the days of Daguerre photography has been regarded as the one infallible means of portraying faithfully any object, scene, or action.  Indeed a photograph is admitted in court as irrefutable evidence.  For when everything else fails, a picture made through the photographic lens almost invariably turns the tide.  However, such a picture upon which the fate of an important