such positive and conclusive effect that there appeared to be no more to say; and his callers, feeling that the interview was at an end, rose to their feet.
"I'll take your advice," said Miss Chichester, "but I'm sure you'll find out that I was right."
Barry did not dissent from Westgate's plan. His mind was, by this time, in such a whirl that he had not the ability to dissent from anything. He went out into the street, and started back toward the mill. Miss Chichester offered to take him in her car. She pleaded with him to go with her. But for once he was resolute. He would walk. When he reached the narrow street that led to the mill, he did not turn in there. He kept on down Main Street till he reached the Potter Building. Again he ignored the elevator and mounted the stairs. He had not promised to take Westgate's advice, and refrain from interviewing Mrs. Bradley. Every succeeding step that he had taken in his journey from the lawyer's office had but added to his determination to find out for himself, from original sources, how much if any of Jane Chichester's remarkable story was true.
Mrs. Bradley was in, and she was alone. Her greeting was more cordial, her smile more alluring, her eyes more fascinating as she turned them on her visitor, than they had ever been before. Barry did not beat about the bush. It was not his way. He went straight to the heart of his errand.
"I've heard something this morning," he said, "and I want to know if it's a fact."
"Am I in a position," she inquired, "to tell you whether or not it is a fact?"
"If you're not," he replied, "I don't know who is."
She smiled again, showing her perfect teeth.
"Very well," she said. "Go on. If it's not one of the secrets of the League, I may be able to tell you."
"It has nothing to do with the League, Mrs. Bradley. It concerns you personally—and me."
