away to make your own living?"

"But--they--my father--is well off. And they have this detective who
follows me. He will find me some day--for the reward--and will tell the
truth."

"The reward?"

"Yes--a thousand dollars. Don't you remember reading--"

The girl stopped short as if to check herself.

"You--you are Florence Gibbons!" gasped Constance as with a rush there
came over her the recollection of a famous unsolved mystery of several
months before.

The girl did not look up as Constance bent over and put her arms about
her.

"Who was he?" she asked persuasively.

"Preston--Lansing Preston," she sobbed bitterly. "Only the other day I
read of his engagement to a girl in Chicago--beautiful, in society.
Oh--I could KILL him," she cried, throwing out her arms passionately.
"Think of it. He--rich, powerful, respected. I--poor, almost crazy--an
outcast."

Constance did not interfere until the tempest had passed.

"What name did you give at the tea room?" asked Constance.

"Viola Cole," answered Florence.

"Rest here," soothed Constance. "Here at least you are safe. I have an
idea. I shall be back soon."

The Betsy Ross was still open after the rush of tired shoppers and
later of business women to whom this was not only a restaurant but a
club. Constance entered and sat down.

"Is the manager in?" she asked of the waitress.

"Mrs. Palmer? No. But, if you care to wait, I think she'll be back
directly."

As Constance sat toying absently with some food at one of the snowy
white tables, a man entered. A man in a tea room is an anomaly. For the
tea room is a woman's institution, run by women for women. Men enter
with diffidence, and seldom alone. This man was quite evidently looking
for some one.

His eye fell on Constance. Her heart gave a leap. It was her old enemy,
Drummond, the detective. For a moment he hesitated, then bowed, and
came over to her table.

"Peculiar places, these tea rooms," observed Drummond.

Constance was doing some quick thinking. Could this be the detective
Florence Gibbons had mentioned?

"The only thing lacking to make them complete," he rattled on, "is a
license. Now, take those places that have a ladies' bar--that do openly
what tea rooms do covertly. They don't reckon with the attitude of
women. This is New York--not Paris. Such things are years off. I don't
say they'll not come or that women won't use them--but not by that
name--not yet."

Constance wondered what hi