The valet's last remark was crashing in its effect.

Miss Donovan's eyes dilated with eagerness and amazement.

"Not Frederick Cavendish! Mr. Valois, tell me--why?"

The other's voice fell to a whisper.

"Frederick Cavendish, miss," he said hollowly, "had a scar on his
chest--from football, he once told me--and the man we laid out, well,
of course his body was a bit burned, but he appeared to have no scar at
all!"

"You know that?" demanded the girl, frightened by the import of the
revelation.

"Yes, miss. The assistant in the undertaking rooms said so, too.
Doubting my own mind, I asked him. The man we laid out had no scar on
his chest."

Miss Donovan sprang suddenly to her feet.

"Mr. Valois," she said breathlessly, "you come and tell that story to
my city editor, and he'll see that you get a job--and a real one. You
and I have started something, Mr. Valois."

And, tossing money to cover the bill on the table, she took Valois's
arm, and with him in tow hurried through the restaurant to the city
streets on one of which was the _Star_ office, where Farriss, the city
editor, daily damned the doings of the world.