friends that I had known a long time on the Star, one of the most
enterprising papers in the city. Fortunately I found my friend,
Davenport, the managing editor, at his desk and ready to talk in
the infrequent lulls that came in his work.

"What's on your mind, Marshall?" he asked as I sat down and began
to wonder how he ever conducted his work in the choatic clutter of
stuff on the top of his desk.

"I can't tell you--yet, Davenport," I explained carefully, "but
it's a big story and when it breaks I'll promise that the Star has
the first chance at it. I'm on the inside--working with that young
detective, Garrick, you know."

"Garrick--Garrick," he repeated. "Oh, yes, that fellow who came
back from abroad with a lot of queer ideas. I remember. We had an
interview with him when he left the steamer. Good stuff, too,--but
what do you think of him? Is he--on the level?"

"On the level and making good," I answered confidently. "I'm not
at liberty to tell much about it now, but--well, the reason I came
in was to find out what you could tell me about a Miss Winslow,--
Violet Winslow and her aunt, Mrs. Beekman de Lancey."

"The Miss Winslow who is reported engaged to young Warrington?" he
repeated. "The gossip is that he has cut out Angus Forbes,
entirely."

I had hesitated to mention all the names at once, but I need not
have done so, for on such things, particularly the fortunes in