the body a few moments ago."

"You'd better stick to your story, Valois," the other said sternly,
"The police will be here shortly. I'm going to call them, now."

He was calm, efficient, self-contained now as he got Central Station
upon the wire and began talking.

"Hello, lieutenant? Yes. This is John Cavendish of the Waldron
apartments speaking. My cousin, Frederick Cavendish, has been found
dead in his room and his safe rifled. Nothing has been disturbed.
Yes, at the Waldron, Fifty-Seventh Street. Please hurry."

Perhaps half an hour later the police came--two bull-necked
plain-clothes men and a flannel-mouthed "cop."

With them came three reporters, one of them a woman. She was a young
woman, plainly dressed and, though she could not be called beautiful,
there was a certain patrician prettiness in her small, oval, womanly
face with its grey kind eyes, its aquiline nose, its firm lips and
determined jaw, a certain charm in the manner in which her chestnut
hair escaped occasionally from under her trim hat. Young, aggressive,
keen of mind and tireless, Stella Donovan was one of the few good woman
reporters of the city and the only one the _Star_ kept upon its pinched
pay-roil. They did so because she could cover a man-size job and get a
feminine touch into her story after she did it. And, though her
customary assignments were "sob" stories, divorces, society events and
the tracking down of succulent bits of general scandal, she
nevertheless enjoyed being upon the scene of the murder even though she
was not assigned to it. This casual duty was for Willis, the _Star's_