should be done to-morrow, and she need worry no longer over her
broken contract with the American theatre managers. But women are
not that way. She prefers the hopeless love. Ah, well, I shall
let you know if anything new happens. Good-night, and a thousand
thanks for your help, gentlemen."

Nothing was said by either of us on our journey uptown, for it was
late and I, at least, was tired.

But Kennedy had no intention of going to bed, I found. Instead,
he sat down in his easy chair and shaded his eyes, apparently in
deep thought. As I stood by the table to fill my pipe for a last
smoke, I saw that he was carefully regarding the letter he had
picked up, turning it over and over, and apparently debating with
himself what to do with it.

"Some kinds of paper can be steamed open without leaving any trace,"
he remarked in answer to my unspoken question, laying the letter
down before me.

I read the address: "M. Alexander Alexandrovitch Orloff, - Rue
de - , Paris, France."

"Letter-opening has been raised to a fine art by the secret service
agents of foreign countries," he continued. "Why not take a chance?
The simple operation of steaming a letter open is followed by
reburnishing the flap with a bone instrument, and no trace is left.
I can't do that, for this letter is sealed with wax. One way would
be to take a matrix of the seal before breaking the wax and then
replace a duplicate of it. No, I won't risk it. I'll try a