nervous keen face. He was the antithesis of 'Gene Bisbee. All honest men
compelled to have dealings with him liked and trusted him. A rich man
could confide a disgraceful predicament to his keeping without fear of
blackmail, and a poor man, if his cause were interesting, might command
his services with a nominal fee. He loved the work and regarded himself
as an artist, inasmuch as he was exercising a highly cultivated gift, not
merely pursuing a lucrative profession. He sometimes longed, it is true,
for worthier objects upon which to lavish this gift, and he found them a
few years later when the world went to war. He was one of the most
valuable men in the Federal Secret Service before the end of 1915.

"What's up?" he asked, as he took possession of the most comfortable
chair in the little room and lit a cigar. "You look as if you hadn't
slept for a week, and you were lookin' fine yesterday."

"Do you mind if I only half confide in you? It's a delicate matter. I'd
like to ask you a few questions and may possibly ask you to find the
answer to several others."

"Fire away. Curiosity is not my vice. I'll only call for a clean breast
if I find I can't work in the dark."

"Thanks. Do--do you remember any woman of the town named--Marie Delano?"
He swallowed hard but brought it out. "Who may have flourished here
fifteen or twenty years ago?"

Spaulding knew that Ruyler's wife had been named Delano, but he refrained
from whistling and fixed his sharp honest blue eyes on the opposite wall.

"Nope. Sounds fancy enough, but she was no Queen of the Red Light