He had gone half through the pack when a door over at the right opened and a girl, dressed in some filmy stuff which brought out the smoothness of her neck and arms and the beauty of her complexion, entered the room.
Curlie caught his breath. It was the girl he had seen on the horse that morning, the magnate's daughter.
She had advanced halfway to her father's desk before she became aware of Curlie's presence. Then she started back with a stammered: "I—I beg your pardon."
"It's all right." The first smile Curlie had seen on the great man's face now curved about his mouth. "You may remain. This is no secret chamber."
"Fa—father," she faltered, gripping at her throat, "does he know—know anything—about—about Vincent?"
"I can't tell yet. I am going over the messages. Please be seated."
The girl sank into a deep leather-cushioned chair. Without looking at her Curlie was aware of the fact that she was studying him, perhaps trying to make up her mind where she had seen him before. This made him exceedingly uncomfortable. He was greatly relieved when at last the magnate spoke.
"Gladys," he addressed the girl, "did you say you found some sort of map in Vincent's room?"
"Oh, yes," she sprang to her feet. "A photograph of a very strange looking map and also one of some queer foreign writing."