Craig laughed. “Not such a bad evening’s work, after all,” he remarked, clearing things up. “Do you realize what time it is?”
Carton glanced perfunctorily at his watch. “I had forgotten time,” he returned.
“Yes,” agreed Craig, “but to-morrow is another day, you know. I don’t object to staying up all night, or even several nights, but there doesn’t seem to be anything more that we can do now, and it may be that we shall need our strength later. This is, after all, only a beginning in getting at the man higher up.”
“The man highest up,” corrected Carton, with elation as we parted on the campus, Kennedy and I to go to our apartment.
“See you in the morning, Carton,” bade Kennedy. “By that time, no doubt, there will be some news of the Black Book.”
We arrived at our apartment a few minutes later. On the floor was some mail which Kennedy quickly ran over. It did not appear to be of any importance—that is, it had no bearing on the case which was now absorbing our attention.
“Well, what do you think of that?” he exclaimed as he tore open one diminutive letter. “That was thoughtful, anyhow. She must have sent us that a few minutes after we left headquarters.”
He handed me an engraved card. It was from Miss Ashton, inviting us to a non-partisan suffrage evening at her studio in her home, to be followed by a dance.
Underneath she had written a few words of special invitation, ending, “I shall try to have some people there who may be able to help us in the Betty Blackwell matter.”
THE AFTERNOON DANCE
It was early the following morning that I missed Kennedy from our apartment. Naturally I guessed from my previous experiences with that gentleman that he would most likely be found at his laboratory, and I did not worry, but put the finishing touches on a special article for the Star which I had promised for that day and had already nearly completed.
Consequently it was not until the forenoon that I sauntered around to the Chemistry Building. Precisely as I had expected, I found Kennedy there at work.
I had been there scarcely a quarter of an hour when the door opened and Clare Kendall entered with a cheery greeting. It was evident that she had something to report.
“The letter to Betty Blackwell which you sent to the Montmartre has come back, unopened,” she announced, taking from her handbag a letter stamped with the post-office form indicating that the addressee could not be found and that the letter was returned to the sender. The stamped hand of the post-office pointed to the upper left-hand corner where Clare had written in a fictitious name and used an address to which she frequently had mail sent when she wanted it secret.
“Only on the back,” she pursued, turning the letter over, “there are some queer smudges. What are they? They don’t look like dirt.”