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She coloured slightly, but instantly regained her composure. “Vaguely,” she murmured, toying with the flowers in her dress.

“In real life,” said Kennedy, his voice purposely betraying that he meant it to have a personal application, “husbands do not forgive even rumours of – ah – shall we say affinities? – much less the fact.”

“In real life,” she replied, “wives do not have affinities as often as some newspapers and plays would have us believe.”

“I saw Delarue after the performance last night,” went on Kennedy inexorably. “I was not seen, but I saw, and he was with – “

She was pacing the room now in unsuppressed excitement. “Will you never stop spying on me?” she cried. “Must my every act be watched and misrepresented? I suppose a distorted version of the facts will be given to my husband. Have you no chivalry, or justice, or – or mercy?” she pleaded, stopping in front of Kennedy.

“Mrs. Branford,” he replied coldly, “I cannot promise what I shall do. My duty is simply to get at the truth about the pearls. If it involves some other person, it is still my duty to get at the truth. Why not tell me all that you really know about the pearls and trust me to bring it out all right?”

She faced him, pale and haggard. “I have told,” she repeated steadily. “I cannot tell any more – I know nothing more.”

Was she lying? I was not expert enough in feminine psychology to judge, but down in my heart I knew that the woman was hiding something behind that forced steadiness. What was it she was battling for? We had reached an impasse.

It was after dinner when I met Craig at the laboratory. He had made a trip to Montclair again, where his stay had been protracted because Maloney was there and he wished to avoid him. He had brought back the camera, and had had another talk with O’Connor, at which he had mapped out a plan of battle.

“We are to meet the Gay Cat at the City Hall at nine o’clock,” explained Craig laconically. “We are going to visit a haunt of yeggmen, Walter, that few outsiders have ever seen. Are you game? O’Connor and his men will be close by – hiding, of course.”

“I suppose so, I replied slowly. But what excuse are you going to have for getting into this yegg-resort?”

“Simply that we are two newspaper men looking for an article, without names, dates, or places – just a good story of yeggmen and tramps. I’ve got a little – well, we’ll call it a little camera outfit that I’m going to sling over my shoulder. You are the reporter, remember, and I’m the newspaper photographer. They won’t pose for us, of course, but that will be all right. Speaking about photographs, I got one out at Montclair that is interesting. I’ll show it to you later in the evening – and in case anything should happen to me, Walter, you’ll find the original plate locked here in the top drawer of my desk. I guess we’d better be getting downtown.”

The house to which we were guided by the Gay Cat was on a cross street within a block or two of Chatham Square. If we had passed it casually in the daytime there would have been nothing to distinguish it above the other ramshackle buildings on the street, except that the other houses were cluttered with children and baby-carriages, while this one was vacant, the front door closed, and the blinds tightly drawn. As we approached, a furtive figure shambled from the basement areaway and slunk off into the crowd for the night’s business of pocket-picking or second-story work.

I had had misgivings as to whether we would be admitted at all – I might almost say hopes – but the Gay Cat succeeded in getting a ready response at the basement door. The house itself was the dilapidated ruin of what had once been a fashionable residence in the days when society lived in the then suburban Bowery. The iron handrail on the steps was still graceful, though rusted and insecure. The stones of the steps were decayed and eaten away by time, and the front door was never opened.