"Number of the automobile?"
Valeska consulted a paper in her purse. "99,954." Astro went into the little library in his waiting-room and took down the automobile list for the state of New York. He looked up the number, and then whistled softly. "Why, that was Helen Van Amsterdam!"
Valeska's eyebrows rose. "The heiress?"
"It must have been. That's the number of the Van Amsterdam's automobile, at least."
"Then I don't see why the Lady in Taupe should be looking for an engagement, if she has such rich friends."
"Oh, that doesn't signify. But there's something queer about it. Well, we can't take any more time; I have too many important things to attend to. We'll just file that information for reference. We may hear from Pinkard again."
He did hear from Pinkard, in fact, within the week. The playwright came in one morning, as handsome, confident, and debonair as ever. He took a new critical look at the studio, then sat down as Astro came in, and said:
"Well, the Lady of Taupe has called on me at last!"
"Yes?"
"You were quite right—as far as you went. She wanted a part in the cast of The Chameleon, and waxed eloquent over her attempts to get an engagement. You should have heard her talk! That girl has magnetism, all right. She played as pretty a scene, for an hour, in my library as I've ever watched on the stage. She did imitations of Mansfield and Cissy Lof-
