them of my
troubles. Your husband is going to place them in the hands of a friend
of his."

"Peter Creighton! Is he coming here? Lovely!" She turned impulsively
to Miss Ocky. "He's just the nicest man you ever met!"

"Who is he?" demanded Miss Ocky, but before she could get her answer,
Varr had interrupted.

"We don't know yet that he is coming. You will surely write to him
to-night, Mr. Krech?"

It was the very question the big man had been waiting for, but no one
could have guessed it from his perfectly simulated surprise. His
eyebrows were delicately arched as he made bland reply.

"You don't realize the value of time in these matters, Mr. Varr. Write
to him! To-night! He'd have my life! No, sir, as soon as I left you
this morning I went straight to the village and telephoned him. Bolt
was fearfully annoyed about his lunch--he doesn't understand urgency,
either."

"You got Creighton? What did he say?"

"He will handle it. He can't get here until the first train in the
morning, but of course he is working on the case already."

"Working on the case?" repeated Simon impatiently. "How in thunder
_can_ he? He doesn't know anything about it yet."

"Oh, yes, he does. You forget that I was able to give him a lot of
information. We had a long talk--ask Bolt."

"But, what can he do in New York?"

"Plenty," said the big man airily. "You don't know him."

"May I ask again," said Miss Ocky plaintively, "who is this Peter
Creighton? And what?"

"He's a dear!" said Mrs. Krech.

"He's a wonder!" said her husband.

"He's a detective," said Simon grimly.

"A detective! Coming here!" cried Miss Ocky, her eyes bright with
interest. "My word, won't _that_ be jolly!"

_XI: Checkers and Chicane_

Miss Drusilla Jones, whose fortunes were temporarily bound up with
those of Charlie Maxon, was a rather tall and shapely young woman,
handsome in a coarse sort of way when her face was in a state of
animation; in repose, its expression was marred by a too-great boldness
in the big dark eyes and a suggestion of sullenness about the heavy,
full-lipped mouth. She dressed well--"too well for an honest woman,"
was the dark verdict of ladies more reputable and less attractive--and,
with a shrewdness surprising in one of her type, avoided the cheapening
allure of cosmetics. She spent most of her days in bed, and earned her
living, at least ostensibly, by spending most of the night at Tom
Martin's d