“I can’t tell you—­yet, Davenport,” I explained carefully, “but it’s a big story and when it breaks I’ll promise that the Star has the first chance at it.  I’m on the inside—­working with that young detective, Garrick, you know.”

“Garrick—­Garrick,” he repeated.  “Oh, yes, that fellow who came back from abroad with a lot of queer ideas.  I remember.  We had an interview with him when he left the steamer.  Good stuff, too,—­but what do you think of him?  Is he—­on the level?”

“On the level and making good,” I answered confidently.  “I’m not at liberty to tell much about it now, but—­well, the reason I came in was to find out what you could tell me about a Miss Winslow,—­ Violet Winslow and her aunt, Mrs. Beekman de Lancey.”

“The Miss Winslow who is reported engaged to young Warrington?” he repeated.  “The gossip is that he has cut out Angus Forbes, entirely.”

I had hesitated to mention all the names at once, but I need not have done so, for on such things, particularly the fortunes in finance and love of such a person as Warrington, the eyes of the press were all-seeing.

“Yes,” I answered carefully, “that’s the Miss Winslow.  What do you know of her?”

“Well,” he replied, fumbling among the papers on his desk, “all I know is that in the social set to which she belongs our society reporters say that of all the young fellows who have set out to capture her—­and she’s a deuced pretty girl, even in the pictures we have published—­it seems to have come down to Mortimer Warrington and Angus Forbes.  Of course, as far as we newspapermen are concerned, the big story for us would be in the engagement of young Warrington.  The eyes of people are fixed on him just now—­ the richest young man in the country, and all that sort of thing, you know.  Seems to be a pretty decent sort of fellow, too, I believe—­democratic and keen on other things besides tango and tennis.  Oh, there’s the thing I was hunting for.  Mrs. de Lancey’s a nut on gambling, I believe.  Read that.  It’s a letter that came to us from her this morning.”

It was written in the stilted handwriting of a generation ago and read: 

“To the Editor of the Star, Dear Sir:—­I believe that your paper prides itself on standing for reform and against the grafters.  If that is so, why do you not join in the crusade to suppress gambling in New York?  For the love that you must still bear towards your own mother, listen to the stories of other mothers torn by anxiety for their sons and daughters, and if there is any justice or righteousness in this great city close up those gambling hells that are sending to ruin scores of our finest young men—­and women.  You have taken up other fights against gambling and vice.  Take up this one that appeals to women of wealth and social position.  I know them and they are as human as mothers in any other station in life.  Oh, if there is any way, close up these gilded society resorts that are dissipating the fortunes of many parents, ruining young men and women, and, in one case I know of, slowly bringing to the grave a grey-haired widow as worthy of protection as any mother of the poor whose plea has closed up a little poolroom or policy shop.  One place I have in mind is at——­ West Forty-eighth Street.  Investigate it, but keep this confidential.