never get enough of it, either, although Mr. Frederick gave him a
liberal allowance."

"Did they ever quarrel?"

"I never heard them. But I do know there was no love lost between
them, and I know that young John was always broke."

"Girls cost lots on Broadway," Miss Donovan suggested, "and they keep
men up late, too."

Valois laughed lightly. "John only came home to sleep occasionally,"
he said; "and as for the women--one of them called on him the day after
Mr. Frederick was killed. I was in the hall, and saw her go straight
to his door--like she had been there before. A swell dresser, miss, if
I ever saw one. One of those tall blondes with a reddish tinge in her
hair. He likes that kind."

Miss Donovan started imperceptibly. This was interesting; a woman in
John Cavendish's apartment the day after his cousin's murder! But who
was she? There were a million carrot-blondes in Manhattan. Still, the
woman must have had some distinguishing mark; her hat, perhaps, or her
jewels.

"Did the woman wear any diamonds?" she asked.

"No diamonds," Valois returned; "a ruby, though. A ruby set in a big
platinum ring. I saw her hand upon the knob."

Miss Donovan's blood raced fast. She knew that woman. It was Celeste