She opened it.
"I suppose you think I am your Nemesis," introduced Drummond, as he stepped in, veiling the keenness of his search by an attempt to be familiar.
She had more than half expected it. She said nothing, but her coldness was plainly one of interrogation.
"A case has been placed in my hands by some western clients of ours," he said by way of swaggering explanation, "of an embezzler who is hiding in New York. It required no great reasoning power to decide that the man's trail would sooner or later cross Wall Street. I believe it has done so—not directly, but indirectly. The trail, I think, has brought me back to the proverbial point of 'CHERCHEZ LA FEMME.' I am delighted," he dwelt on the word to see what would be its effect, "to see in the Graeme Mackenzie case my old friend, Constance Dunlap."
"So," she replied quietly, "you suspect ME, now. I suppose I am Graeme Mackenzie."
"No," Drummond replied dubiously, "you are not Graeme Mackenzie, of course. You may be Mrs. Graeme Mackenzie, for all I know. But I believe you are the receiver of Graeme Mackenzie's stolen goods!"
"You do?" she answered calmly. "That remains for you to prove. Why do you believe it? Is it because you are ready to believe anything of me!"
"I have noticed that you are more active downtown than—"
"Oh, it is because I speculate. Have I no means of my own?" she asked pointedly.
"Where is he? Not here, I know. But where?" insinuated Drummond with a knowing look.