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YORK SYMON was the perfect police reporter. If he had a fault it was one which he shared in common with others who were brought into intimate association with law-breakers—namely, a certain sneaking sympathy with the criminal classes. And his acquaintance was a fairly large one.

He knew forgers, bank robbers, burglars, petty larcenists of all kinds. He knew, and was known, to every detective in town, from the chief in his padded chair to the cold-footed "watchers," and he had spent week-ends with the public executioner.

From "York Symon" to "Y. Symon" and from "Y. Symon" to "Wise Symon" was a natural process of transition, and it was as Wise Symon he was known in journalistic, legal and criminal circles. He was responsible for every scoop that the Telephone-Herald had published in the past five years. He had tracked down the Brinder Gang; he had exposed the Dope Syndicate; he was instrumental in restoring to Mrs. Leverson-Bowle her diamonds—and that without a scandal—for the lady could hardly have explained the circumstances in which she lost them. But, mainly, Wise Symon was wise in the way of high-class tricksters, the top- notch Con. gangs and those swindlers who haunt the great hotels of our big cities.

He could smell a fake a mile away, knew the habits and customs of every rogue that ever turned the hair of a hotel detective from russet brown to dirty grey, and it was only natural that the happiest hunting ground was the Hotel Ferdinand, because to the Hotel Ferdinand, with its gorgeous suites, its perfect service and its somewhat liberal-minded proprietor, came the best and the worst.

There was a lady named English Nell. Her real name was Eleanor Meredith Jusun; but she earned the sobriquet in the southern states of America. It would be difficult to define her speciality, and one may generalize her attainments by describing her as an all-round swindler.

"No," said the hotel clerk as he turned the register—Wise Symon lounging his tall figure across the counter in such a way as to suggest that he had had a collapse— "there's no one here, Y, who answers to the description. What's she been doing?"

"Oh, just being naughty," said Wise Symon vaguely. "She's the Lady Angela Follingham, the beautiful daughter of the Karl of Follingham."

"That's no offence in a democratic country," said the clerk.

"Not if you don't borrow money on your name," yawned Wise Symon. "But if that doesn't impress you, let me tell you that she's Miss Sophonia Griggs, Secretary and Treasurer to the Young Women's Outing League."

"That seems pretty good to me," said the clerk. "I never did think young ladies got enough outings, anyway."

"The mirror's over there," said Wise Symon; "have a good look at yourself."

"Well, there's nobody here. There isn't much of a story in her, anyway."

"Leave the literature to experts," said Mr. Symon, uncurling himself from the counter. "I'll be looking in again later."

A lady came through the glass doors of the vestibule, a page carrying her one small valise. She was well but quietly dressed, and to Wise Symon's eyes was agitated. She was undoubtedly pretty, in a pale, black-and-white kind of way, and she was young. She came to the counter.

"You had my wire?" she said; "Miss Mary Smith."

"Oh, yes, Miss Smith," said the clerk, taking out a key; "384, second floor I hope the room will suit you."

He swung the book round and she wrote her name hurriedly. Wise Symon noticed that she cast furtive glances towards the door. He strolled over to where the bored page was waiting with the valise and observed that a letter or a number of letters had been painted out and he became interested.

By a well-manoeuvred accident he knocked the valise flatways, so that the stamped inscription lay under the light. It was a new valise, and he chuckled—for the figuring was a coronet, beneath which were the letters "S.-M."

He came back to the counter as the clerk was searching for letters and stood, his elbow on its polished surface, till the lady, the page and the bag had disappeared into the elevator.

"Did you see that?" he asked.

"See what?"

Wise Symon pointed to a small handkerchief which the lady had evidently left behind her on the counter.

"I'll tell you something," said Symon. "I admit it's waste of time telling you anything, because you know it all; but I'm telling you something now that, to a man of your limited intelligence, should put me in the Holmes and Watson class."

"What is it?" asked the clerk curiously.

"That handkerchief," said Wise Symon, "is embroidered in the corner with the letters S.-M.",

"How do you know?" asked the startled clerk.

"Examine," said the wise one. The clerk unrolled the little handkerchief, and sure enough on one of the corners was embroidered a miniature coronet and the letters S.-M. "You know my methods, Watson," said Mr. Symon magnificently; "shall I tell you something. The lady is the Duchess, the Countess, the Viscountess, or the Marchioness de S.-M. She's travelling incognito. She doesn't want anyone to know that she's here in this little town, that's why her initials are covered over so that a blind man can read them; that's why she leaves, by a most annoying accident, her handkerchief underneath your myopic gaze."

"But I don't get you," said the clerk. "If she's travelling incognito, why should she give herself away?"

"I wonder," said Wise Symon. "I wonder what she was looking for and who she was expecting," he said, as much to himself as to his audience.

"She would hardly worry about the police. Will you let me take this handkerchief up to her?"

The clerk hesitated.

"The boss doesn't care about his guests being annoyed, you know, Y." But Wise Symon put the handkerchief in his pocket with a laugh.

"384 I think you said. If you don't mind I would like to use your 'phone."

He got Detective Hackett, who was equally interested in the matter.

"It's Symon speaking," he said. "You might tell me, is English Nell working alone or is she running a side partner ?"

"She had a side partner," said Hackett's voice, "but she turned him down; a fellow named Roderique, a Spaniard and a pretty bad citizen."

"Is she likely to be afraid of his following her?" asked Wise Symon, very much interested.

The man at the other end of the wire laughed.

"I should say so," he said drily. "She left him flat in Kansas City."

"Good," said Wise Symon, cutting short the inquiry which was coming by the simple process of hanging up the receiver and making his way up to Suite 384.

"Come in," said the girl's voice, and he walked into the sitting-room, closing the door behind him. She had taken off the beaver coat she wore and was sitting at the writing-table smoking a little cigarette which she threw into an ash- tray as he entered.

"I should like my dinner in my room. Will you ask them to send the menu?"

"With the greatest of pleasure," said Wise Symon cheerfully. "I am not a member of the staff of this hotel, but a little thing like that won't prevent my passing on your order."

She looked at him in surprise.

"Aren't you a member of the staff?"

"No," said Wise Symon; "I came up to restore this to you." He produced the handkerchief.

"Oh, thank you, thank you very much," she said. She took it from his hand with a little frown.

"I am a reporter," explained Wise Symon, and he thought he detected a hint of alarm in her eyes. "

"What do you want with me?" she asked.

"Well, Miss Smith," said Wise Symon, "I have reason to believe that you are a runaway countess. Shall I say the Countess S.-M.?" Wise Symon stood and admired her artistic hesitancy. Never let it be forgotten he had a sneaking sympathy with all people who earned their living by avoiding the law.

"I am the Duchess of Svorza-Marino," she said in a tone in which hauteur and nervousness were perfectly blended. "I am travelling incognito, and I should be greatly obliged to you if you would say nothing about my being in this hotel or indeed in town at all."

"Why, that's asking a lot," smiled Wise Symon. "I am maintained at a princely salary by a newspaper in order to discover little details like that, Miss Smith, or should I say, Your Grace? You don't talk like an Italian," he said, carelessly.

"No," she replied; "I am really an American girl. I met the Duke when I was on a visit to South America, and we eloped together. I have lived with him just as long as I could, and now I have left him. He lives an abominable life."

"Is that so?" asked the sympathetic Symon. "Well, that's a pretty good story!"

"But I don't want it in the newspapers," she said hurriedly. "Please, Mr.—Mr.—"

"Symon."

"Please, Mr. Symon, as a personal favour to me, don't let it get into the Press. I want to avoid my husband, who is a man of the most violent temper, and ever since I divorced him—"

"Ever since you divorced him in Kansas City," murmured Symon, and she looked at him in doubt.

"No, not in Kansas City," she said, "I divorced him in Reno."

"I have heard of such things," said the wise one, wiser than the father of owls at that moment.

"You say that he pursues you?"

"He has uttered the most awful threats," she said, and here her agitation was undoubtedly genuine. "If he knew I was here I don't know what would happen."

Wise Symon looked at her critically and on the whole approvingly. She conveyed the illusion of helplessness. She was undoubtedly a woman, and undoubtedly in genuine distress, and he had a kind heart, had Y. After all, he thought, there was a lot in what the hotel clerk had said.

A lady of doubtful antecedents masquerading under a false name, even though that name partook of splendour, was not so unusual an incident that he could expect it to lead the page.

"Well, I don't know," he said. "I have got to think about this."

She nodded.

"I realize that it's a big thing to ask you," she said; "but I feel you will do it for me."

He scratched his head.

"You've got me rattled," said Wise Symon, "and now I'm giving it to you straight, that when I came here I expected you'd only be too glad to see me and to find yourself announced in splash letters. This is a new one on me. Honest! What's your graft?"

She laughed.

"What funny language you use," she said coldly.

"I was just asking you to do me a favour, which any woman is entitled to ask of any man. Surely there's nothing remarkable in that. And you may do me a further favour when you pass the office. Will you tell them that under no circumstances are they to allow my husband to come up to me ? They can't mistake him, he is tall and dark and foreign looking."

"Yes, yes," said Wise Symon impatiently; "I'll do all that."

He thought a moment.

"I'm going to my office. Do you mind if I come back and see you in about half- an-hour's time?"

"I shall be very pleased," she said so simply that he looked hard at her and smiled, with which expression of his scepticism he left her. He made his way straight to the office and dutifully delivered her message.

"Now you can tell me, Augustus," he said, "getting your wits to work in the least possible time, is there any money in this hotel?"

"Money?"

"Is anybody staying here with money, with portable property, that can be detached with little or no difficulty. I am not referring to bank presidents, Pittsburg millionaires and theatrical managers, but is there anybody here with real money?"

"Solomon's here," said the clerk, after a moment's thought.

"Which Solomon?" snarled Wise Symon. "The biblical bigamist?"

"Solomon the jeweller."

"Has he got any stones with him?" asked Wise Symon quickly.

"I believe so," said the other. "I am not supposed to have any information on the subject. I have nothing in the safe, but I happen to know he came here to see Willie Osborne."

Willie Osborne was the hectic son of a doting father, and Willie's hobby was applying chorus girls to diamonds.

"Solomon is close. He doesn't tell you any of his business, but he does a lot of trade here."

"That's it then," said Wise Symon thoughtfully. "What is the number of his room?"

"396; that's on the same floor as your countess."

"Duchess," said Mr. Symon grimly.

He hailed a taxi outside the door and drove back to the office and the city editor greeted him without enthusiasm.

"Got that story?" he asked. Wise Symon shook his head.

"Well you had better hurry up and get it. She's in town, the lady you're looking for."

"How do you know?" asked the startled investigator.

"The York Courier sent a reporter up. She came in here to enquire if you were in town."

"She? Is it a she?"

"A pretty smart she," said the city editor, picking up a card and handing it to him. He read:

MISS MARIE DAINLEY

York Courier Times

"She says English Nell is in town and is working on a big job. They got the tip down at York from a man she's been working with, a fellow named Roderique."

"Where is this girl reporter now?"

"She's gone off to the hotel. You must have passed her," said the city editor.

"Right!" Wise Symon went down the steps three at a time and jumped into his waiting taxi.

He couldn't afford to wait for the denouement. He must call the girl's bluff and get the story from her before the police net closed in upon her, and certainly before Miss Marie Dainley of the York Courier got busy. Incidentally he would have to side-track his rival as best he could. He reached the hotel and the clerk was evidently looking for him, for he beckoned him.

"There's been another reporter here—a peach!" he smirked. "Where is she now?"

"She's gone up to interview Her Ladyship—no there she is."

He pointed to a slim figure in a tailored suit who was sitting on a bench writing rapidly in a note-book which she held on her knee. Wise Symon walked across to her.

"Miss Dainley," he said, raising his hat.

"Oh yes, you are Mr. Symon, aren't you," and rising, offered her hand.

"Have you seen her yet?" she asked.

"Seen who?" demanded Symon with bland innocence. "

"Why, isn't there somebody in the hotel?" she asked significantly. "The clerk told me that you were looking after a lady who was in 384."

Wise Symon cursed the clerk under his breath. If he hadn't opened his mouth Miss Dainley would have been wholly in the dark as to the identity of the visitor.

"She calls herself a Duchess or something, doesn't she? At least, she calls herself Miss Smith, that's what the clerk says."

"Have you seen her?" asked Symon.

"No," said the girl.

"Well, don't," said Wise Symon; "you are on the wrong track. This lady has been identified and known to me as the Duchess of—as a Duchess," he could not remember her name, "for years."

She eyed him oddly.

"Oh," she said, and was not convinced.

"You're wasting your time," said Wise Symon in agitation. "Why don't you go to the depot. She will never come to a place like this."

"Oh," said the girl again. Again a fit of compunction seized him, for he extended his charity not only to the criminal classes but to any pretty girl with a straight nose and solemn grey eyes, even if she was a member of his own profession.

"Well, maybe you are right," he said; "but will you let me go and see her first?"

"Suppose we go up together," said the girl. Whatever answer he may have made to this suggestion was not framed. A man had passed through the swing doors and stood looking about him in the entrance hall, a tall, dissolute-looking man who was obviously a foreigner and presumably a Spaniard. He had not a nice face, and Wise Symon watched him as he crossed the vestibule to the desk. Then he strolled over in his wake.

"That's she," the man was saying, stabbing the book with his finger. "Mees Smit; ah yes, I know dat was the name."

"You can't go up," said the clerk.

"She is expecting me," said the visitor. "It is my wife." And, waving aside the protest of the clerk, he leapt rather than walked to the elevator.

Symon turned and ran after him, but the elevator door clicked in his face. Criminal or no criminal, he was not going to stand by and see the girl ill- treated, and he waited impatiently for the elevator to descend.

"I'll let you go up first," said a voice at his elbow. He turned and saw the girl reporter, and nodded.

No. 384 was at the far end of the corridor, but he sprinted along and tried the door without any preliminary knock. It was locked. There were two doors to the suite, one leading into the sitting-room, the other into the bedroom, and he made for the second door.

This was unfastened and he walked in, closing the door behind him. The connecting doors between the two rooms were wide open and he heard the man's impassioned voice and a little scream. With two strides he had passed into the sitting-room. The girl was on her knees, the men hand about her throat.

"I told you I would kill you," he was screaming, "You leave me, eh!" And with every word he seemed to be tightening his grip, for the woman's voice had sunk to a hoarse gurgle of sound.

"Excuse me," said Wise Symon, and jerked his fist under the man's jaw. It was not a hard jolt as jolts go, but it sent the man staggering back. For a second he stooped to spring, and his evil eyes held murder. Then Wise Symon was on him. Two blows he struck and the man went down in a heap whimpering and sobbing.

"Get up," said Wise Symon sternly; "get up, you poor thing."

He jerked the intruder to his feet and shook him.

"She's finished with you, Pedro, or Michael Angelos, or whatever you call yourself. Do you understand? She's finished. You go and find another partner. She's got her troubles."

He unlocked the door with one hand and flung it open. A figure stood on the threshold and Wise Symon grinned.

"Give me five minutes, Miss Dainley," he said; and kicked the man into the corridor, waiting till he picked himself up and slouched towards the stairway. Then with a little nod to the girl, he shut the door, and locked it behind him.

He turned to the woman who sat crouched in a chair, pale and shaking,

"Now see here," he said kindly, "you are going to get me into trouble. I'm paid to get a story out of you, not to be your gallant little knight. You take a friend's advice and skip. There's a young lady bloodhound outside the door who is thirsting for literary gore. Go into the bedroom. I will have her in and detain her until you get clear away." She shook her head.

"I have something to do," she said huskily.

"I know all about that," replied Wise Symon; "and someone to do, but I am giving you good advice. Maybe I am going to lose my job for giving it. You get out of town. Anyway, you were a fool to come. Old Solomon's a converted gunman, and carries his sparklers at the bottom of his pistol pocket. Just wait!"

He walked stealthily to the door, quietly unlocked it and looked out. The girl was a little way along the corridor and her back was towards him. He closed the door again.

"Now is your chance," he said. "I tell you there's a female sleuth in the corridor outside and she's after you. She calls herself a reporter, but she's more likely to be a detective sent to mind Solomon. Have you got any money?"

She shook her head.

"I haven't very much." He took out his pocket-book and opened it. "I have enough to get you away," he said, "and I'll fix it with the hotel people. Are you going?"

"No," she said quietly; "you have been very, very good to me, Mr. Symon, kinder than any man has been to me all my life. I shall never forget it, and I hope that I shall have an opportunity of repaying you."

She blushed under his steadfast gaze and dropped her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly; "but you don't suppose you are going to stay here as the Duchess of Svorza-Marino, and not attract attention, do you? The whole hotel knows who you are, and to-morrow you will be surrounded by reporters, your picture will be in the papers and you will be jugged."

Somebody knocked at the door.

"Well, it's your own fault," he said a little sadly; "I am going to admit Lady Holmes."

He stood waiting, but she made no sign.

"I am the poorest kind of fellow I know," he said with a, laugh. "But somehow I haven't got it in me to make capital out of your trouble, Nell."

He unlocked the door and stepped back. It wasn't the girl, but Trencher; and Trencher was a lawyer of such standing and respectability that even policemen saluted him.

"Why, Mr. Trencher," said Wise Symon, "I didn't think this was your kind of case."

"Hello Y., what are you doing here?"

The girl jumped up to meet him.

"I am so glad you have come, Mr. Trencher."

"I would have come before, Duchess, if I had known you were here," said the lawyer, shaking hands with her heartily. "I met your late husband as I came in and I don't think he will trouble you again."

Wise Symon was standing open-mouthed and the girl held out her hand to him.

"I don't know what I should have done but for Mr. Symon," she said.

"Oh, you are acquainted, are you," said Trencher; and then: "I suppose it was you who made him look as if he had been pulled out of an ash-bin. A regular bad fellow that, Symon, and the Duchess is well rid of him."