whether any one of them answered to the given
description.

"There's the time-keeper's book. Look it over. All the names are there,"
he said.

Mr. Gryce did as he advised, but of course without finding there the name
of Antoinette Duclos or of anyone else of whom he had ever heard.

The next thing was for him to go through the factory itself and see if he
could pick her out from those already at work. This he was greatly averse
to doing; it would be too long and painful an effort for him, and he
could not trust Perry with any such piece of nice discrimination. How he
missed Sweetwater! How tempted he was to send for him! It was finally
decided that when the hour came for the departure of the whole dayshift,
he should take his stand where he could mark each employee as she
filed out.

A sorry attempt followed by as sorry a failure! He did not see one among
them who was over twenty-five years of age. But this did not mean the
end of all hope. There was the nightshift. Might she not be put on that?
A different man had charge at night. He would wait for this man's
appearance, present his cause to him and see what could be done.

Not much, he found, when the night superintendent finally entered the
office and he had the chance of introducing himself. Newer to authority
than the superintendent of the dayshift, he was also of a more active
temperament and much more self-assertive. He was not impressed by the
detective's years or even by his errand. It was a busy night, a very busy
night--new hands in every department. To take him through the building at
present was quite out of the question. Perhaps later it might be done;
but not now, not now.

With that the night superintendent bustled out. This was not very
encouraging, but Mr. Gryce did not despair. He had seen with what ease he
could look from the broad, rear window near which he stood, into the
rooms where rows upon rows of girls were already at work. Only a narrow
court divided him from these girls, and as the three stories of which the
factory was composed were all brilliantly lighted, he should have little
difficulty in picking out from among them the middle-aged woman who held
in her closed and mysterious hand the key to that formidable affair
threatening the honor of one of New York's most prominent men.

Before doing this, Mr. Gryce stopped to locate himself and recall if
possible the entire plan of the building. He was in what was called the
outer office.