Blackmail! by Fred M. White — Read

There was merciful oblivion from the tinkling telephone and raucous newsboys as Mrs. Sinclair crossed the vestibule of her hotel. She had been early astir--early enough to realise the fact that New York does sleep sometimes, and that there are some hours not devoted to the pursuit of the almighty dollar. But the smartness, the alertness, the appalling greediness were coming back now, for it was close upon what the Yankee play fully calls breakfast time.

Lyn was already down when Mrs. Sinclair reached her room. She looked a little white and disturbed as she glanced up from her paper.