In gilt letters on the ground glass of the door of room No. 962 were the words: "Robbins & Hartley Brokers." The clerks had gone. It was past five. And with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons scrubs-women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story office building. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with lemon peelings soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open windows.

Robbins fifty soemthing of an overweight beau. And addicted to first nights and hotel palm-rooms pretended to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys.

"Going to be something doing in the humidity line tonight" he said. "Your out-of-town chaps will be the people with katydids and moonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch."

Hartley twenty-nine serious thin good-looking ner-vous sighed and frowned a little.

"Yes" said he "we always have cool nights in Floral-hurst especially in the winter."

A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley. "I've found where she lives" he announced in the portentous half-whisper that makesthe detective at work a marked being to his fellow men.