The minister muttered something about the use of excessive make-up, the perils of the city, juvenile delinquency, and his next Sunday’s sermon. Dr. Updegraff muttered something about the significance of the use of lipstick for a farewell message.

The girl gave a tragic little moan. “But I thought you’d help me!”

“Don’t look now,” Malone said, “but I am.” He turned to Klutchetsky. “Better have the squad car go round to the alley. There must be a flock of reporters in the lobby by now. We’ll go down the freight elevator.”

Klutchetsky nodded his thanks, told the young cop to get headquarters on the phone, and said to Malone, “You’ll have to show us the way. How come you always know where the freight elevators in hotels are, anyhow?”

“I have my secrets,” Malone said coyly, “and all of them are sacred.” He didn’t add that, among those secrets, was the knowledge that the ledge outside the window was a good two and a half feet wide, and that it had a rim extending up for at least six inches.

One reason was that he didn’t want to tell how he knew.

He held Doris Dawn firmly by the elbow as they walked to the door. Dr. Updegraff and the minister had volunteered, with willing helpfulness, indeed, even hopefulness, to stay behind and cope with the reporters. Malone had muttered something unpleasant about people who were their own press agents and thus kept honest, but starving, ex-newspapermen out of jobs.

Out in the alley, Klutchetsky thanked Malone for guiding them down the freight elevator, said good night, and ushered Doris Dawn into the back of the car. Malone promptly popped in beside her.

“Now wait a minute,” Klutchetsky said, “You can’t do this, Malone.”

“I can,” Malone said pleasantly, “I will and I am.” He smiled. “Did you ever remember to tell your wife about that trip we took to the races while she was visiting her cousin in the east—” He paused.

“Oh, all right,” the police officer growled. He slammed the car door shut and climbed in beside the uniformed driver.

As the car turned into Michigan Avenue, where the crowd was thinning and the fire department was packing up to leave, her hand crept into his like a cold, frightened kitten creeping into a feather bed.

“I didn’t, you know,” she whispered. “I couldn’t have. There wasn’t any reason. I’ve always had fun. I’ve always had everything. Until this started, I’ve always been happy.”

“I know it,” Malone whispered back. “I’ve heard you sing.” He curled his fingers reassuringly around hers.

“But I don’t want you to believe it because I say so and because you’re sorry for me. I want you to believe it because something proves it to you. I want you to read my diary, and then you’ll really know.”