“Is this straight?”

“True as gospel.”

“Then why don’t you prove it by showing me the letter?”

“Because I don’t belong on your side of the fence.  You’re working for one organization and I for another.  Any little tip I let slip is just for your personal use.  Don’t bother about that letter.”

Susan—­or Nan Shelley—­sat for a time in thought.  Once in a while she would cast a furtive glance around the room and its wall covered with trophies, and then she would turn to Sarah Judd’s placid face.

“Where did the boy go? “she asked abruptly.

“What boy?”

“Bub; in the automobile.”

“To Millbank.”

“What for?”

“To send a telegram.”

“Your report?”

“Yes.”

“Important?”

“I think it’ll bring things to a climax.”

“The Hathaway case?”

“You can guess anything, Nan, if you guess long enough.”

Nan rose and put the revolver in her pocket.  Then she held out her hand frankly to Sarah Judd.

“If you’ve beaten me in this affair,” she said, with no apparent resentment, “you’re clever enough to become famous some day.  I’m going to take your advice about the letter and if that climax you’re predicting arrives on schedule time I’ll not be sorry to quit this dreary, dragging case and pick up a more interesting one.”

The tone was friendly and frank.  Sarah stretched out her hand to meet that of Nan and in a flash a handcuff snapped over her wrist.  With a cry she drew back, but a dextrous twist of her opponent’s free hand prisoned her other wrist and she at once realized that she was fairly caught.

“Fine!” she cried admiringly, as she looked at her bonds, “What next, Nan?”

But Nan was too busy to talk.  She deftly searched the girl’s pocket and found the notebook.  The shorthand writing caught her eye at once but the characters were unknown to her.

“Cipher, eh?” she muttered.

“A little code of my own invention,” said Sarah.”  Sometimes I can’t make it out myself.”

Nan restored the book and examined Sarah Judd’s purse.

“They keep you well supplied with funds, it seems.”

“Comes handy in emergencies,” was the reply.

“Now let’s go to your room.”

Sarah, handcuffed, led the way.  Nan Shelley made a wonderfully rapid search through every article in the maid’s room.  The lining of her clothes was inspected, her hair-brush tested for a sliding back, the pictures on the wall, the rug and the bed-clothing examined minutely.  Yet all this consumed but a brief period of time and resulted in no important discovery.

“Feel better?” asked Sarah cheerfully.

“You know I do.  I’m going to remove these handcuffs, now, and then I’m going home.  Come and see me, some time when you feel lonesome.  I’ve only that fool Agatha to talk to and I’ve an idea you and I might interest each other.”