n. Wrentz passed the number plate of 24
to his assistant, who handed back the plate Of 22. The numbers were
refastened on the wrong doors. The watchers were called back.

"Now," said Wrentz, "it is only a matter of waiting."

Pauline's cab passed out of the central city into the region of
factories.

"This looks like the section where the print shops are in New York,"
she said confidently to herself.

But the driver kept on into streets of dingy, ancient houses--streets
crowded with unkempt children and lined with push-carts.

"Are you sure you got the right address of them publishers, Miss?" he
asked after awhile. "The next street is Weston and it don't look very
promisin'."

She drew the letter from her handbag and showed it to him.

"Well, that's the queerest thing I know," he said, astonished by the
letterhead. "I've been drivin' cabs--horse and taxi--for twenty
years, and I never heard of no such people or no such place."

"Well, at least go around the corner and see. Perhaps it is a new firm
that isn't listed as yet," said Pauline.

The driver swung the cab into a street even more bleak and bedraggled
than the one they had just traversed. He stopped and got out. Pauline
followed him. A blear-eyed man, slouching on a stoop, looked up in
faint curiosity as she addressed him.

"There ain't no No. 9 Weston Street," he answered.

"It usta be over there, but it's burnt down."

Pauline's face fell. "Well, this is certainly stupid," she exclaimed.
"Of course it isn't Weston Street; it's Weston Place, as the letter
says."

"But my 'City Guide' ain't got no such place in it, miss," answered the
chauffeur.

"Well, I'll go back to, the hotel," she said dejectedly.

She was on the verge of tears as she left the elevator and started for
her room. She had looked through all the directories and street guides
and knew at last that she had been the victim of a cruel hoax. All her
joy and pride of yesterday had turned to humiliation and grief. She
wanted to be alone--and have a good cry.

She was puzzled for a moment as she drew her key from her handbag and
glanced at the numbers on the doors. She had been almost sure that No.
22 was the left-hand door, but she had been in such excitement that
she could not trust any of her impressions. She started to place the
key in the lock of the right-hand door.

Like a flash it opened inward and two pairs of hands gripped her. Her
cry was stifled by a hand