The conference was ended. Howard Griscom saw his guests leave the room. He thought for a moment that he was alone with George Ballantyne; then he noticed that Lamont Cranston was still seated at the corner of the table.
The man spoke as Griscom looked in his direction.
“I expressed no opinion after Wilberton was gone,” he said. “The Derringer Circuit is small. It is for sale at any time you choose to buy it.
“In the meantime, I should like to have all the information you can give me regarding the so-called Theater Owners Cooperative Association.”
“My office is always open to you, Mr. Cranston,” returned Griscom. “You are a welcome visitor at any time.”
The door opened and a charming young woman entered. From her manner, one might have placed her age at thirty; her face appeared much younger — almost girlish.
She made a beautiful picture as she stood against the dim background of the doorway, exquisitely gowned. She was evidently returning from a party.
“Come in, Arline,” said Howard Griscom, as the girl hesitated. “Arline, you know Mr. Ballantyne. This gentleman is Mr. Cranston.”
The girl extended her hand. Lamont Cranston received the clasp, and his keen eyes stared steadily into hers.
Arline seemed solemn as she returned the gaze. There was something in those eyes that fascinated her. Their keenness made her think of eyes that she had seen long ago — the eyes of another man — a man whom she had tried to forget.