Suspense by Isabel Ostrander

The offices of the Joseph P. McCormick Detective Agency, Incorporated, occupied the entire nineteenth floor of the Leicester Building and more nearly resembled those of a potentate of finance than a private investigator. The Chief's sanctum was protected by a series of smaller communicating offices presided over by subordinates of ascending rank and importance, through whose hands the visitor, client or culprit, must pass before gaining audience with the great man himself; a process which tended either to crush or irritate the stranger, according to his temperament.

The lady who sent in her card to the Chief on a certain crisp morning in late winter, however, seemed to find food for amusement in the ceremonious progression. She was of the type which proclaims rather than admits age, but in spite of her snow-white hair, her tall figure was as erect as that of a girl and her snapping gray eyes behind the gold _pince-nez_ were neither dimmed nor mellowed by time.