We told you in the Headquarters Chat, last summer, how another magazine had been victimized by a plagiarist who sold a story which we had published in DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE to another editor. Rather facetiously we suggested that some of our astute authors might aid us in tracking the miscreant. Johnston McCulley was the first to snatch up the gauntlet; Ernest M. Poate, who next acted upon our suggestion, enlisted the services of his inimitable Doctor Bentiron, with the following result.

FOR eighteen months I had been laboring beneath the burden of Doctor Bentiron's enormous practice. With his house patients I had done fairly well, I think; most of them were quiet, chronic psychoses — the doctor's pensioners. I had refused all new cases. But with his consultation work I had made little headway, of course. People wanted the opinion of Doctor Bentiron, New York's most eminent alienist; and the doctor was in England, heading the Royal Psychiatric Commission. Why should they consult me, his almost unknown assistant? I did not blame them.

      None the less, a certain number of cases came my way. So I was not greatly surprised when the office nurse brought me in three cards. It was early; scarcely after eight o'clock. I was at breakfast with my wife and our daughter, Janet Bentiron Blakely — a remarkable child! Although only seven months old, she sat sturdily upright in her high chair, pounding with her spoon and crying "da-da" — just as plain!

      I thought that the nurse's beaming face hinted at suppressed excitement; but then, every one smiled at Janet. So I took the cards without glancing at them.

      "Three gentlemen, Doctor Blakely," explained the nurse. "They all want to talk to you together."

      "Take them back to my office," I directed, "I'll be right down." I had never used the doctor's big, bare office; that had been empty ever since he left us. But every day its floor was waxed and polished, its blank walls wiped down; every day the doctor's huge reclining chair was dusted with loving care. I saw cases in my own small room at the back of the house.

      So presently I kissed Milly and the baby good-by and descended the wide staircase, cards in hand. At its foot Hanrahan, the big orderly, stood rigidly at attention. His broad face was flushed; his eyes danced.

      "Good morning, sorr," said he, and his voice bore an odd note of elation.

      I looked into the main office. Here also there was a curious atmosphere of animation. Stenographers and nurses, soberly at work, yet wore an air of repressed gayety, as though they shared some joyous secret. They looked at me smilingly, with little, electric side glances at one another, so that I wondered briefly.

      Then I glanced at the cards in my hand, and straightway forgot everything else.

      "Jasper Howland," I read, "with Bentley's Magazine; P. S. Rawson, 'Piquant Stories'," and "Francis Whitegood, Editor of 'Mystery Tales!'"

      Three editors, calling upon me! I was filled with amazement. Mr. Whitegood I had met before. He had shown great interest in my modest accounts of some of the chief's experiences, and had gently but firmly suppressed certain of my attempts at fiction. Yes, I have tried to write fiction; but long ago I resigned myself to the recording of fact. I can tell plain tales of Doctor Bentiron's work acceptably enough, but no one seems to care for my own imaginings. Speculating as to the purposes of my distinguished callers, I hurried back to my little office.

      There I found the three editors waiting. Mr. Whitegood introduced me to Howland, a stout, carelessly dressed individual, whose slangy, offhand manner accorded ill enough with the dignity of the conservative magazine which he edited. Mr. Rawson, on the other hand, had a precise, almost ministerial bearing; and he selected the racy material which made up that magazine, "Piquant Stories." Appearances are deceptive.

      "We are a sort of committee," explained Whitegood pleasantly. "We represent — unofficially, of course — half a dozen other editors. A very serious situation has arisen in the magazine field; a clever swindler has victimized half the editors in New York. Something must be done about it; none of us feel safe. We don't know what to do, and after talking the matter over very carefully we have decided to appeal through you to Doctor Bentiron. Perhaps he can help us."

      "I'm sure of it," I declared with conviction. "But the doctor is away, gentlemen; he is still in England. I have had no. word of him for months." The doctor was always a poor correspondent.

      My visitors looked disappointed. "But," began Mr. Howland, "we heard that ——"

      Just then Hanrahan knocked at the door, and without waiting for an answer inserted a beaming face.

      "Sorr," said he, and the brogue was broad upon his tongue, "the docther do be callin' ye."

      I sat staring at him, open-mouthed, while he chuckled at my amazement.

      "The — the doctor!" I stuttered. "Gentlemen, excuse me."

      And I rushed precipitately out, my heart pounding.

      Upon every face I saw a broad grin; evidently I was the last to learn great secret. Scarcely waiting to knock, I burst into the long disused office — and there, enthroned in his great reclining chair between the revolving bookcases, sat the chief, Doctor Bentiron, in his own proper person!

      He was wrapped in the familiar green bath robe, a little more faded, scorched in a new spot here and there. His long, thin legs were outthrust; his slender fingers held a cigarette. Immobile, impassive as Buddha, drooping wearily in the great chair, he stared at the bare wall before him with long, sleepy gray eyes.

      I choked; there were tears of pure joy in my eyes. It was so good to see him there, so natural!

      "Umphf, Blakely," said the doctor dryly. His manner was as casual as though it had been an hour, instead eighteen months, since our last meeting.

      I stammered something, I scarcely know what, wringing his hand joyfully, then dashed out into the hall.

      "Milly," I shouted up the stairs. "Milly! The doctor's back!"

      A delighted little scream came back in answer, and my small wife tumbled down the broad stairway, anyhow, clutching Janet to her breast.

      She darted into the office and climbed into the doctor's lap, baby and all. She hugged him and pulled his whiskers, petted and scolded him in her delicious, bubbling little voice; the swift words tumbled over each other, leaving her quite out of breath. And Janet reached up a tiny fist to grasp the doctor's great hooked nose.

      "Da-da, doc!" she cooed, quite plainly.

      I stood watching, my heart full. It was a pretty sight. And those who think Doctor Bentiron callous and indifferent should have seen him then. His face was very tender, and the cold, tired eyes were warm and moist.

      It was a wonderful reunion, Milly and I talked at once, and little Janet sat on the doctor's knee and babbled softly. The chief sat and listened, as was his wont. He said nothing of his work in England, and it was not until long afterward that I learned he had refused the Distinguished Service Order — for the characteristic reason that he "had too many letters after his name already; to use them all would be cruelty to the alphabet."

      So my editorial visitors were quite forgotten for an hour or more. At last I remembered them with a start.

      "There are three editors waiting to see you, doctor," said I.

      "Umphf," replied the doctor.

      "They said it was very important," I urged. "Somebody has been cheating the magazines."

      "Umphf," repeated the chief. "Fetch 'em in."

      So Milly caught up the baby and hurried out, while I went back to my own office after my neglected guests.

      They were still there; a little uneasy, inclined to be irritated, but still there. It told me that their need was great. With what apologies I could muster, I led them through the wide hall to the doctor's bare, sky-lighted office. Hanrahan was already bringing in chairs for them; a special mark of favor, for most of the doctor's visitors had to stand. He kept no chairs in the office, save his own.

      The doctor evidently knew Whitegood and Howland; they introduced the third man, and we all sat down.

      "Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron, and settled himself to listen. He blinked at his bare wall as sleepily as ever, but his manner in some way conveyed a hint that preliminaries were over.

      Accordingly Mr. Whitegood, who seemed to be acting as spokesman for his fellows, plunged into an explanation.

      "We are after one Robert Janeway Miller," said he. "He's been stealing stories — goodness knows how many! He copied one of Harold Mahler's stories out of my magazine — scarcely bothered to change the characters' names, even — and sold it to Halloran, of 'Thayer's Magazine.' It was published last month. Of course readers spotted the steal right away, and began to write in about it. And the very next week 'Bentley's' came out with 'Love's Denial' by Robert Janeway Miller — lifted bodily from 'Piquant Stories' for May nineteen fifteen!"

      Mr. Howland looked rather uncomfortable; the ministerial features of Mr. Rawson widened to a slight smile. "No wonder you fell for it, Howland," he commiserated, "'Piquant Stories' runs good stuff!"

      "Well," continued the editor of "Mystery Tales," "there was another case. And we got suspicious of Mr. Robert Janeway Miller, and began to compare notes. A dozen editors got together, and found that the fellow'd been at it wholesale for months — copying stories out of one magazine, with a few minor changes, and reselling few minor changes, and reselling them somewhere else." He glanced at Howland with a quizzical grin.

      The editor of "Bentley's" groaned. "The conscienceless wretch got to me right," he admitted ruefully. "Sold me a story out of my own files, twenty years back, dressed up to date and signed Robert Janeway Miller! Gr-r-r-r! I desire his blood!"

      Doctor Bentiron yawned, blinking at his bare wall. "Umphf," said he. "A professional plagiarist, in short. An interesting occupation."

      The three editors nodded solemnly. Mr. Rawson took up the tale.

      "You can see our situation," he explained. "It's serious enough. Of course, we're onto R. J. Miller now; but there's nothing to prevent him from taking another name and going merrily on. No man can keep track of all the current fiction. Some of us" — and he grinned at Howland — "have difficulty with our own files, even. We're afraid to buy anything, except from our known contributors. So we decided to appeal to you."

      "Umphf," replied the doctor, unimpressed, and rolled a fresh cigarette. "Blakely is the literary member of this firm."

      Our three guests looked at me politely, but without perceptible enthusiasm. I said nothing.

      "Well," pursued the chief, "what do you want me to do?"

      "Find Robert Janeway Miller," answered all the editors at once, "so we can have him pinched!" Their unanimity was beautiful.

      "Umphf," said the doctor. "Why not find him yourselves?"

      "It can't be done," declared Mr. Howland flatly. "He hasn't left a trace."

      "Umphf. Rot," was the chief's languid comment. "Every action leaves a trace. Just what do you know about the fellow?"

      "Nothing," replied Whitegood. "Nothing but his name — undoubtedly assumed — and the number of a post-office box here in New York."

      "Nonsense," said Doctor Bentiron. "You have his manuscripts, or some of them, haven't you? And you paid him by check."

      Three mournful nods.

      "Well," said the doctor, as though the matter were settled. "What more do you want — except time and patience? The post office will have no record, except of his assumed name and the date that he resigned his box — for he has undoubtedly given it up by now. But his manuscripts and the letters he must have written some of you will help; and a check leaves a wide, wide trail." He yawned. "I'm just back, and foot loose for a few days. And the affair sounds interesting. I'll take it up. Yes, I'll look into it."

      Our guests chorused thanks, but the chief languidly raised a hand. "First," he drawled, "let us see what we really do know of this chap Miller, about whom you three know nothing." He paused to inhale deeply, then went on, each deliberate word accompanied by a little jet of smoke: "I assume that he is a man. Perhaps not; but the methodical and businesslike nature of his frauds suggests masculinity. Let us say a man, then; probably young, because of the boldness of his ideas. A young man of considerable intelligence, with a tolerably good sense of literary values. Not every one could select from your magazine, Rawson, a story suitable for 'Bentley's.'"

      The editor of "Piquant Stories" looked a trifle hurt, but admitted the truth of this inference.

      "We infer, then," resumed the chief, "that he is a young man of literary bent, whose ethical code is decidedly liberal; undoubtedly a constitutionally inferior person whose defect is mainly in the moral field. Also, in all probability, a man who has tried to write fiction, and has failed. One might even infer a grudge against editors; the sort of person who pastes pages of his manuscript together to prove that they were never read, and all that sort of thing: The editors wouldn't buy his own stuff, which was good — well, he'd prove that they weren't omniscient.

      "Let us consider the psychology of such a character. He would show the psychic stigmata of inferiority, chief among which is the habit of boasting. Not for nothing have the courts decided that publication is part of the author's remuneration for his work. Despite the risk, Mr. Robert Janeway Miller will never have been able to refrain from announcing himself as a literary person; from showing some one his published works. And through that some one we may be able to locate him.

      "I suggest, then, a young person of literary pose; perhaps of long hair, soft collars, Windsor ties, and even velvet jackets. A person who, in certain circles, at least, has been looked upon as a writer; a person who probably has attempted to write, in fact. This man reads many magazines — to select the stuff he plans to steal. He buys them, because he could scarcely copy them in a library without evoking comment. Therefore there will be many in his room. He owns or rents a typewriter; again, because it would be so much safer than dictation. So, you see, we do know something about him, after all.

      "Now to find out more. Go, all of you, and communicate with all the editors you know. Get all the manuscripts and letters Miller has sent in — all you can collect. Go to your business offices and collect all canceled checks made out to him. Bring 'em all here, and we will consider this matter further."

      With profuse thanks, our visitors took their departure, leaving me alone with the chief. He sat silent for a time, smoking and pondering, then heaved himself up, checking my unasked questions.

      "I have talked enough," he drawled, "Come along. I will make my rounds."

      So things stood until next morning, when Mr. Whitegood returned, alone, bringing half a dozen manuscripts, two short letters, and seven canceled checks.

      The letters bore no address; they were brief and uninformative. The doctor examined them and the manuscripts briefly. "All on Sigma bond," said he. "You can buy it anywhere. Written with an old machine; at a guess, I should say a Remington six — the indigent author's friend. Umphf. No doubt some detectives could tell you the factory number of the machine, and the color of our friend's hair; I can't. However, I venture the assertion that Miller has tried, and therefore is trying — they never stop — to market his own stuff under another name, perhaps his own. I suggest, Mr. Whitegood, that you set somebody to work in the various offices, looking for manuscripts written on Sigma bond with a Remington six machine. Compare your findings with these samples, and you may get Miller's real name, and an address. Meanwhile, I'll be looking over these checks."

      He picked up the little sheaf of canceled checks. They were on five different banks. All were indorsed "Robert Janeway Miller" in a bold, flowing hand.

      "Umphf," said the chief. "Only one cashed at a bank; wherefore I judge that Miller has no bank account in that name. Nor in any other, probably, since the other indorsements are different on all checks."

      He examined each check in turn, shuffling them slowly over, sniffing at each one. Then he selected two and passed them to me.

      "Blakely, my son, what do you infer from these?" he inquired.

      I looked at them. The first bore Miller's indorsement, then the name of Robert J. Smith, then a blurred, scrawling signature, "P. J. O'Callaghan," and then the stamp of a bank. The other had been signed, after Miller's name, by one F. X. Murphy. I shook my head, and passed the two slips to Mr. Whitegood.

      He, too, examined them fruitlessly. "I don't see anything," he declared, "except that they're both dirty and thumb-marked, and smell of stale beer and tobacco."

      "Exactly," said the doctor approvingly. "You show rudiments of sense. And from said appearances and odors, I infer that these checks were cashed in saloons. Observe, also, that there is a striking similarity between the writing of Robert Janeway Miller and that of Robert J. Smith. It is my guess that our elusive friend was known as Miller at one saloon and as Smith at the other. Go home. Blakely and I are about to invade a bank or two."

      Mr. Whitegood returned to his office, while we two entered the doctor's big blue limousine and drove to the Fourteenth Street National Bank, whose stamp had followed the signature of O'Callaghan on the first check.

      Here Doctor Bentiron asked for the president, whom he knew, as he did almost every one else. It took only a moment to satisfy the chief. Yes, Mr. P. J. O'Callaghan had an account there; he kept a saloon — a Raines law hotel — around the corner on Third Avenue — the Palace.

      Without loss of time we set out for the Palace Hotel. Yes, Mr. O'Callaghan was there; a dropsical, pear-shaped man, meticulously clad, diffusing ambrosial scents. His puffy hands were overmanicured, his huge mustache was combed and waxed; but there were pouches beneath his bleared, rheumy eyes, and he breathed asthmatically. He was in the twilight state of the habitual drinker; neither completely drunk nor completely sober.

      Before him the doctor spread out the canceled check. He blinked at it for a moment, mustering his uncertain wits.

      "Do you remember that?" asked the chief.

      The other lifted the check and turned it over. "Uh," said he. "Uh-huh. I guesso. 'S a matter with't?"

      "Nothing," said the doctor. "But do you know Robert J. Smith?"

      The other stared. "Uh," said he. "Uh-huh. Sure do I know him, the spalpeen! He owes me three months' rent. And where's he gone, sorr, do ye know?"

      "So he lived here?" inquired the chief.

      Mr. O'Callaghan tapped the check with a blunt forefinger. "For six months," he averred. 'And 'tis all the rent ever I got from him, that check is. Faith, it's glad I am to be rid of him, wid his drinking and clacking that domm typewriter all night. Last month I had an argument with him, and trun him out. And he ain't been back since. Tell him from me, sorr, t' come and fetch his stuff before I trun it out, too!"

      "So his things are still here?" said Doctor Bentiron. "Mind if I go up and look them over?"

      Mr. O'Callaghan blinked at him incuriously for a moment; he did not even ask for a reason. "Yes, sure," he agreed, waving his hand with alcoholic expansiveness. "G'wan up, sorr — look all ye like. Give him the key, Mike. 'Tis the second door from the head of the stairs."

      With no more formality than this we gained entry to the room of the absent Mr. Smith. I paid mute tribute to the doctor's persuasive personality.

      The room itself was characterless, typical of the Raines law hotel. Two windows, half obscured by a huge beer sign, fronted the street. Plaster was flaking from the painted walls; the dust-colored floor matting was ragged. In one corner stood a cheap, white iron bed with flimsy, inadequate covers. The place was littered with magazines, new and eld, many with torn covers; loose, printed pages strewed the floor, overflowing from a plain pine table whereon stood a battered typewriter — a Remington six. Beside it lay several pages torn from the "Pink Book." In the machine was a sheet of Sigma bond paper. I leaned over it. Aloud I read:

      I glanced at the magazine pages, and read:

      "Umphf," drawled the chief, at my shoulder. "That looks like our bird."

      He turned over the litter on the table. There were no letters; there was nothing here, or in the ramshackle bureau, to show us where Mr. Miller-Smith had gone — if this had indeed been his abode. The only personal article, save a few soiled clothes, was a photograph on the dresser.

      It was the picture of a flashily pretty girl in a dress rather too low; her pose was affected, theatrical, and across her skirt was scrawled in an unformed, illiterate hand: "To Bob, from your little Hong Kong sweetheart."

      "Umphf," commented the doctor cynically, blinking at this charmer with weary, disillusioned eyes. "That is a person to talk, if we can find her."

      Carrying the photograph, he trailed down the stairs to where Mr. O'Callaghan lounged in the bootblack's chair, half asleep.

      "Do you know this woman?" he asked.

      The hotel keeper stared dully at the picture. "I dunno," he replied. "Sure, they's a many of those kind, down here."

      "Well," said Doctor Bentiron, "is there a place in the neighborhood called the Hong Kong?"

      The other blinked at him. "Uh, uh-huh," he averred. "Sure, 'tis Murphy's place, over on Fourteenth Street. "Tis a tough joint, sorr — the Honka-tonk-Kong, as the word goes round here. Uh-huh, 'tis a bad place, wid women and dancing and the like. Now I keep a respectable house. My wife and daughter, they's livin' upstairs."

      We walked around the corner to view the "Hong Kong Restaurant, Café and Cabaret," as its sign magniloquently announced. Here things were very quiet, for it was not yet noon. We entered a large and gaudy barroom, set with many small tables. At the back was a staircase with a big sign: "Cabaret Upstairs."

      The place was almost empty; a white-jacketed bartender dozed at his station, but jerked himself upright at our entry, smiling a professional smile. He was clean-shaved, black-haired, with a curious, blue-white, unhealthy pallor; the edges of his nostrils were red and inflamed. His eyelids jerked rhythmically, obscuring and revealing dead black eyes that seemed swimming in ichor. I frowned to myself; the Hong Kong was indeed a "tough joint." That is a disreputable saloon which employs a bartender showing plain marks of both alcohol and cocaine.

      "Well, sports?" queried this worthy. The doctor ordered two glasses of amber fluid, but I noted that he did not drink his. Mine also went untouched.

      "Join us?" invited the chief suavely.

      "T'anks," said the other, and poured himself a drink.

      "Ah-h-h!" said he then, and took a sniff of cocaine, quite openly.

      "Mr. Murphy in?' asked Doctor Bentiron.

      The other shook his head.

      "It's Mr. F. X. Murphy, isn't it?" persisted the chief. "And he banks at the Commercial?"

      "Uh-huh," said the bartender sourly.

      The doctor produced his photograph and laid it on the bar. "Do you know her?" he demanded.

      "Uh-huh," grunted the other. Then he paused, breathing deeply; his dull eyes lighted, a little flush came into his white cheeks. The cocaine was beginning to act; magically, he had become affable, communicative, garrulous.

      "Uh-huh," he repeated. "Sure I know her. That's Rosie, Rosie Klein — calls herself Mallowe to the Johns. Some swell Jane, she is — always picks the spenders. Never knowed her t' make but one fumble — when she fell for that writing feller — Hiller, Filler Shiller ——"

      "Miller?" suggested the doctor quietly.

      "Uh-huh — Robert Janeway Miller, he called himself round here. Claimed he was a author — and he did spend it, for a while. But I knowed all the time he wasn't nothing but a shine. Still and all, he did have money — for a while."

      "Mr. Murphy cashed a check for him?" supplied Doctor Bentiron.

      "Uh-huh," replied our loquacious host. "From some magazine it was — or so he said. Seems t' me they was some trouble about that, too. I disremember what. Ain't seed him round for a month 'r so. Say, Bill," to a somnolent individual in one corner, "what was they fighting about that night? You know, Miller and that newspaper feller? Som'pin 'r another about a story, seems to me."

      The man addressed heaved himself up and slouched over to the bar. "I'll take a tall one," said he, glancing sidelong at the doctor. At the latter's nod, the bartender filled a glass. After drinking, our new informant began his tale.

      "Yeah," said he. "This feller Miller, he was in here with Rosie that night. They was both pretty drunk. He had some magazine with him, and he set 'em up all around, twice. 'It's on me,' says he, 'I got a story printed in this here magazine.' Well, us guys all drank, and told him how good he was, like we would anybody that'd buy. Then this here newspaper feller butts in. He's on the Star — I seen him before. 'Le's see it,' says he, and Miller give him the book. Well, he read along a ways, and then he threw the book down. 'You're a liar,' says he, 'and a thief,' he says. 'You stole that story,' says he, and hits him in the eye, and they mixed it for a minute."

      "And the boss had Rough Mike trun 'em both out," finished the bartender indifferently. 'And I ain't seed. Miller since." His eyes began to glaze; his brief animation was wearing itself out.

      "And where's Rosie Klein?" asked the chief idly.

      "Rosie?" repeated the bartender. "Oh, she's around. Who's she runnin' around with now, Bill?"

      "She ain't got nobody just now," replied Bill. "Living in a furnished room over on Third, at Mother Lazarus' place."

      I knew the woman; she kept a decidedly shady rooming house, of the sort where no questions are asked. A cutting scrape had brought me there while I was still riding a Bellevue bus.

      So we thanked our informants, set up another round, and started out for Mother Lazarus' place.

      In all its externals the house was like a thousand other dingy rooming houses. A dark hallway led back between a saloon and a pawnbroker's shop; dirty, uncarpeted stairs brought us up to a sort of sitting-room office on the second floor. Here we found Mother Lazarus, the spider of this sordid web; a hook-nosed old woman with close-set, evil eyes, whose skinny arms and pendulous abdomen gave her an uncanny resemblance to the insect of my metaphor.

      She received us with an insinuating smile.

      "Vell, gentlemen? Vhat? R-rosie? R-rosie Klein? Ja, she is here. A good girl, R-rosie!" She rubbed wrinkled, clawlike hands together, smiling evilly. "She sleeps yet, maybe. I call her."

      She shuffled laboriously up another flight of stairs to knock upon an unseen door.

      "R-rosie, liebchen!" we heard her call. "Schlafst du noch? Two gentlemen ——" The oily voice sank to an inaudible whisper.

      Presently Mother Lazarus returned, beaming. "Go right up, gentlemen," she urged. "The first door. A good girl — a good girl, R-rosie!"

      Bowing and rubbing her old hands, she indicated the uninviting stairway. We ascended through an odor compounded of boiled cabbage, stale beer and cigar smoke.

      Miss Klein received us quite informally. I do not know what the astute old woman may have whispered to her; perhaps Doctor Bentiron's name. So many unlikely people knew the doctor! At any rate, the girl's bearing was neither apprehensive nor coquettish, but quite friendly and businesslike.

      The room was close and hot; it smelled of cheap perfumery. The lady herself sat up in a tumbled bed. Her tousled, brass-yellow hair showed a betraying darkness at its roots; her skin was the least bit blotchy, and there was a smear of rouge on the pillow.

      Nevertheless, she was strikingly pretty in a hard, shallow fashion. Mr. Miller might have shown worse taste, I thought.

      Miss Rosie yawned unguardedly, and pried her last night's gum loose from the headboard.

      "You'll havta 'xcuse me looking like this, gents," she apologized. "I ain't no early bird — I don't like worms. Do I look turr'ble, reely?" She smiled affectedly, turning her head a little, and looked at us cornerwise from bold brown eyes. Seen in that pose, there was no mistaking her; it was the girl of the picture in Robert J. Smith's room — his "little Hong Kong sweetheart."

      The doctor smiled at her gravely, 'You look very nice, my child," he assured her. "We just want to ask you a few questions about Mr. Robert Janeway Miller."

      The girl shrank a little; her lips drew back to show white, even teeth. "You ain't got nothing on me!" she cried shrilly. "I didn't have nothing to do with it!"

      "With what?" inquired the chief equably, and she relaxed, laughing uneasily.

      "That's one on me, she admitted. "I don't know what, but I they's sompin', He's one o' those kinda fellahs."

      "Perhaps ——" insinuated the doctor, producing a yellow-backed bill.

      "Oh, gee, yes!" was Miss Klein's fervent, if inelegant reply. "I'd murder me best friend f'r one o' them babies." The bill disappeared under her pillow, and she leaned forward, greedy eyes alert. "Whadda ya wanta know, mister?" she demanded.

      "First, what does he look like?"

      "Oh, a reel nice-looking boy. Kinda slim, with big, blue eyes and curly hair. A reel, high-toned talker, too — he useta use elegant big words. But they wasn't nothing nifty about his clothes; his hair was too long, and he wore dreadful loose clothes, and big, floppy bow ties. Said it was lit'rary — he was a author, you see, a writing fellah. Miller wasn't reely his name, you understand."

      "Do you know where he lives?"

      "His regular place, y'mean? Nope He was a reel nice boy — when he had the coin."

      She paid his memory the tribute of a little pause, while I pondered her statement; it is the epitaph of many a better man than this plagiarist.

      "But he ain't been around f'r a month," Rosie went on brightly. "He ain't comin' back."

      "When did you see him last?"

      "Oh, pretty near a month ago, down to the Hong Kong. I hang out there, mostly, you understand. We was there one night, and he had a scrap with some fellah — sompin' about some story he'd writ, I do' know just what. Well, anyways, Mike slung 'em both out f'r the rough house, and presently Bob comes around here, all marked up — I didn't wait f'r him, you understand. Well, he was turr'ble excited over it. 'I gotta take two bells,' he says. 'I gotta beat it away from here,' says he, 'onna loop,' he says. He was a dreadful funny talker that way. 'Onna loop,' says he, kinda scared, and I thought prob'ly the bulls was after him f'r sompin'." She made the statement quite casually, accepting such a likelihood with the cynical, unmoral philosophy of Fourteenth Street.

      "Do you know where he went?"

      She shook her head indifferently. "Nope. He didn't say nothing, on'y he was going to get a job of work and lay low f'r a while. Oh, he stalled around about the 'editors' ring.' He was a great fellah to go on about the 'editors' ring' — said they was all against him, and tried to keep his stuff outa the papers, and that's why he changed his name. And he said they'd caught onto him, and was after him again, and he'd have to get out — 'onna loop!'" She chuckled at the words.

      "Umphf," drawled the chief. "You're sure of the words, are you? He said he was going to take two bells and get out on the loop and find him a job of work?"

      Rosie gave an emphatic nod. "He was always talking that kinda stuff," she averred.

      "One thing more; do you know his real name?"

      "Bob Smith, he says." Miss Klein giggled once more. "Them editor fellahs must 'a' been turr'ble smart, t' pick him outa all the Bob Smiths in N'Yawk, seems t' me."

      "Umphf," repeated Doctor Pentiron. "Thank you, Rosie," He rose and bowed formally. Rosie seemed a bit overcome by his manner.

      "Yes, sir," said she, and bobbed her brassy head. "'S a pleasure. Come ——" and checked herself, real color streaming up beneath the streaky rouge.

      But the chief was already descending the stairs. Outside, I stopped and turned to him hopelessly.

      "You've done wonderfully, doctor," said I. "But this ends it. To find Bob Smith in New York City is an impossibility."

      "Umphf," said the doctor, rolling another cigarette. "He may take another name. But we're only starting. We have a tolerable description of our man; we know something about his habits. I was assured that he would not be able to keep his literary career to himself. As for tracing him, there's the post office. Some one there may remember him. There are other checks to trace, and the banks will have a complete record of them. There is a typewriter, rented from the Cohen Agency on Broadway — did you notice their stencil on the machine — and they will have a record. And I have no doubt that in some editorial office they will find manuscripts written on Robert Janeway Miller-Smith's old machine, but bearing his real name and address. It is only a question of time and patience.

      "Moreover, aside from all this, I have a hunch." I leaned excitedly toward him, having had experience of the doctor's hunches. "I shall take a short cut, which may lead to nothing. Did you observe the significance of Mr. Miller-Smith's colloquialisms — 'two bells — on the loop — a job of work?'"

      I was puzzled. "Slang, I suppose," said I. "But it's new to me, I'm afraid."

      "Umphf," commented Doctor Bentiron. "Not to me. That, my son, is street-car talk; and once upon a time I also rode the back end."

      I stared at him amazed, longing for a biography of this man who had known so many occupations.

      "You were a street-car conductor?" I demanded.

      "Exactly," murmured the doctor, unmoved. "And those expressions belong to the language of the guild. Wherefore I conclude that our friend has been a street-car man. On the back end, no doubt — the opportunities for profit are greater there.

      "Now you may never have considered this, but the uniform of the Metropolitan Railways is an excellent disguise. No one ever looks at a street-car conductor; to the public he is a change-making, fare-ringing mechanism, not a human being at all. Street cars are a grand place to hide, as more than one much-wanted gentleman has discovered for himself. Mr. Miller-Smith has been a street-car man; he promised Rosie to get a 'job of work.' Wherefore I conclude that he has gone back on the line. Yes. Exactly."

      He led the way back to the waiting limousine, and presently we were being driven to West Fifty-ninth Street, to the car barns.

      As usual, the doctor found friends here. In fifteen minutes we were talking with the division superintendent.

      "We are looking for one Robert Smith," explained the chief. "A conductor, I imagine; he is a light man."

      The superintendent grinned, shuffling index cards. "There are ninety-odd Smiths on the Met," said he. "We have nineteen conductor Smiths running out of this barn alone. Three of them are Roberts."

      "Umphf," said the doctor. "This man would be an extra, hired about three weeks ago."

      "Here you are, then; Robert J. Smith, No. 07819, running on Sixth Avenue. A swing run." He glanced at his watch. "He's off now. He relieves the day man at four-thirty. I'll give you a note to the starter."

      The doctor took it and thanked him; we went out.

      "It's time to eat," declared the chief. "A fair morning's work, I think. Umphf. Yes. Of course, I may be wrong, or our friend may have changed his name, or he may be over on Third Avenue, or up on the Union, in the Bronx. However, we'll see."

      We drove home for a late lunch. I made hurried rounds, and at four o'clock we set out for the corner where the conductors on the Sixth Avenue line are changed.

      The chief approached the starter here, who was already busy initialing the time sheets of the off-going day men and hustling the swing force onto their cars.

      That official read the superintendent's note. "Yes, doctor," said he amiably.

      The chief did not mention our suspect's name. "We are looking for a slim young fellow with big blue eyes," he explained. "He rides the back end. He wears his hair too long, and probably has a big bow tie. He writes for the magazines. Know him?"

      "A long-haired feller," repeated the starter. "Writes f'r th' papers? Yeah, sure I know him. That'll be Bob Smith. Claims he's just on the cars t' get stuff f'r a book — 'local color,' he calls it. Yeah. He's a smooth article, that feller. He goes up on the carpet, soon's he reports; spotter caught 'im three fares short. Here he comes now."

      A slender youth was approaching, uniform cap set jauntily askew upon long, curling hair. A huge Windsor tie lowed down over his uniform coat.

      "You, Smith!" snapped the starter. "Rooney gets your car. Report to the super, at wanst."

      The young man flushed, and turned sullenly away.

      "One moment, Mr. Robert Janeway Miller," said the doctor softly.

      The other whirled on him. "Well?" said he.

      Then his eyes began to dilate, and the sullen color slowly left his cheeks. "Who told — how do you ——" He broke off. "My name is Smith," he cried angrily. "I don't know anybody called Miller."

      "Rosie Klein told me," replied the chief gently.

      "But — but ——" protested the other, half mystified and wholly frightened.

      "Rosie didn't know — nobody knew where I was going!"

      Doctor Bentiron yawned. "Nevertheless, I found you," he drawled. "Come along, son. We can bring a dozen witnesses to identify you as Robert Janeway Miller, professional plagiarist. The man who plans to sell stolen stories, and get away with it, is very ill advised to pose as an author. Umphf, yes."

      And the doctor beckoned to a passing policeman.

      No doubt you all read in the newspapers of the trial of Robert Janeway Miller; it was given wide publicity at the time. Plagiarism is an offense more serious than many people think.

      As a result, Mr. Miller — or Smith, which proved to be his real name — will be engaged for another three years in that unpopular vocation facetiously known as "making small ones out of large ones." And the editors of New York have a measure of security in buying fiction from unknown authors.