-DRYDEN

Irene withdrew to a retiring room to install her illgotten gain in her petticoat pocket, which was easier to extract from than return to.

I sipped my tepid Earl Gray. Americans seemed afraid to make really good scalding hot tea. I gazed idly at the street. Sitting in a tearoom is one of the few places where a lady is free to stare at passersby. I found myself smiling to recall that a tearoom was where Irene and I first met, and she had resorted to thievery on that occasion also . . . slipping the remaining cakes and sandwiches on our tray into her capacious muff for later consumption.

Of course we had both been half-starving young spinsters then, Irene an aspiring opera singer, myself an unemployed governess, and then an unemployed drapery clerk.

The paper was a minor matter, and I was glad to see Irene pursuing her own past rather than the lurid murder she had stumbled onto just as Sherlock Holmes was consulting on the event.

I should be grateful that Irene was committing only petty theft now, instead of traipsing after Sherlock Holmes on a gruesome case as awful as the Ripper hunt.

I sipped more tea and blinked my eyes open as I recognized a hat passing on the opposite side of the avenue. Pink Cochrane! How that girl flaunted her lavish-brimmed hats and her eighteen-inch waist!

The New York World was erecting an impossibly high building next to the Herald and the Times . . . twenty-six stories, I had read in the Times. The new owner, a Polish immigrant named Pulitzer, sought to bring the less regarded World into direct competition with the larger newspapers.

Apparently "Miss Bly" was inspecting the new quarters, which would be crowned with a gilded dome like St. Peter's in Rome, only smaller, one would hope. Nothing like Roman Catholics and newspapers for sensational display!

While I was exercising my Anglican distaste for show, I suddenly spilled what was left of my tea into the saucer. Pink had an escort for her promenade up Fifth Avenue . . . Quentin Stanhope. Even now he was lifting his walking stick to indicate some point high on the Sun and Times buildings.

I half stood to better view the pair, and in so doing, tilted my tea-filled saucer into my lap, where it drenched my new green plaid skirt.

Thus Irene found me, flailing with a napkin at my skirt and craning my neck nearly around the window frame to catch the last, unwelcome glimpse of the passing couple.

"Nell! You've had an upset."

An upset indeed! "Yes, I turned to look out the window and my cuff must have caught on the teacup."

"Gracious. It will dry, of course, and we can have the hotel staff clean and press the skirt when we return."

"We must return right away. I am not about to stroll Fifth Avenue looking like something a pet Pekingese has had its way with."

"But my next destination is on the way downtown, and I am anxious to put this matter of Eliza Gilbert to rest."

"Eliza Gilbert has already been put to rest by those more entitled to do it than you."

"Nell!" she rebuked me for my temper.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Irene. I'm even sorrier that everything is ruined."

"It's only a department-store skirt, Nell. We can get another tomorrow if the mishap ruins the outfit for you."

"You're right, Irene. Spilled tea is hardly spoiled expectations or ruined hopes. But our gloves are unwearable, and-"

"August in New York is quite warm enough to do without gloves. We shan't be the first women to dispense with them."

I sniffed, but had no heart to argue proper attire with her. What did it matter where I went, wearing what?

14.

TAKING THE FIFTH.

It is admitted by everybody that the newspaper woman does better

work than her male competitors on the society and fashion pages

of the great dailies. Nellie Bly has shown that a woman can make

her mark as a traveling correspondent and as a special writer.

Still, there is the general impression that the newspaper woman is

confined to a narrow field. Perhaps this is a mistake.

-THE ATLANTA CONSTITUTION

FROM NELLIE BLY'S JOURNAL I gazed at the bare ground across from Park Row, then back at the towering facades of the New York Tribune and the Times building to its right. It was all I could do not to whoop a hurrah at the impressive sight of what was known as Newspaper Row.

Then I turned my attention to my escort. He did quite nicely, for all that he was of that abominable, self-satisfied breed, an Englishman.

I was often recognized on the street nowadays, not only because we girl stunt reporters were the talk of the newspapers themselves but because my novel, The Mystery of Central Park, had appeared last year with my likeness, wearing a large and most becoming hat, on the cover.

I must admit that I was one of the first to dispense with the fashion of the modest little bonnet and embrace the newly popular hats with their swashbuckling wide brims and plumed panache. As rare as girl reporters still were, it didn't hurt to have an instantly recognizable trademark (unless I was undercover), and a hat can't be missed.

And, of course, I stirred a great deal of curiosity about my gentleman friends. How odd that when a woman becomes known for the work she does, the first thing people want is to marry her off.

I made sure no scandal attached to my attachments, and they were nearly nonexistent. All the better to have people talking about one. And the more they talked about me, the better stories I would be allowed to pursue and the more I would cement my position.

I summed up the Englishman beside me as I knew the people who nodded to me in passing were doing.

Of course there is nothing like an Englishman for tailoring, and in this Quentin Stanhope was in the running with the best of his breed. No sacklike lounge suits for him! He wore summerweight wool in a gray-and-ivory check, although he had conceded to the heat with a straw boater hat. Despite the soft summer tones, he seemed as hard as a steel etching, perhaps because his light eyes narrowed at all he examined, as if he took instant measure of every person and thing around him. His sun-darkened skin was oddly attractive against the light clothes, and he flourished his walking stick with an ease that reminded one it could also be used as a club. He was, in fact, a walking contradiction, a thoroughly civilized Englishman, as few Americans can emulate, and a thoroughly dangerous man.

At the moment he was being charming, but I was well aware his fount of that was about to run out.

"You said," he reminded me in his clipped accent, "that this stroll would be enlightening."

My, was that fabled British patience wearing porcelain thin? I was irritated to consider that while he chafed to serve as my escort, he would willingly consort with that ninny Nell Huxleigh.

"This hole in the ground is very enlightening," I told him. "You see how the Tribune and Times buildings face the park along here?"

"Quite impressive," he said, sounding not at all impressed. "They must tower fifteen stories or so, and the single spire atop the Tribune must reach twenty. I don't doubt that Wonders of the World will soon be springing up in New York City."

"And I intend to be one of them."

His lazy gaze sharpened on me in that intimidating manner. "Aren't you getting a trifle above yourself?"

"I aim high and am not ashamed to say it. The new World building goes right here. It'll be twenty-six stories and have a gilt dome atop it."

"Rather like St. Peter's in Rome."

"Like nothing in New York, except City Hall next door, and the World dome will be much, much bigger and higher. It will be the tallest building in the world when finished next year. There's a story about Mr. Pulitzer. This site where the World will soon reign supreme housed the elegant French's Hotel at Park Row until Mr. Pulitzer bought and razed it to make way for the new World building."

"Amazing waste." Quentin shook his head. "We're not so hasty to tear down the old and erect the new in London. We wait a few hundred years at least."

"Ah, but here's the rest of the story. A bit more than twenty years ago, when Mr. Pulitzer was a fresh Hungarian immigrant and volunteer Union Army cavalryman during the Civil War, he was ejected from French's Hotel because his battle-frayed uniform annoyed the fashionable guests. You see what this says about America?"

"That snobs are everywhere?"

"Don't tease, Quentin! This is a land of limitless opportunity. In just a few years, Mr. Pulitzer has managed to bring the World to dwarfing the circulation of James Gordon Bennett's Herald. Now his new World building will literally dwarf the neighboring presence of Charles Henry Dana's Sun.

"Mr. Pulitzer plans to excel the Tribune and the Times as New York's most important newspaper, and I intend to be part of that."

"What are you telling me, Pink?"

I must say that the sound of my nickname in that accent, on those hard-cut lips, was far more inciting than the many sweet nothings American gentlemen had whispered in my impervious ear.

I would not be deflected by them, and I would not be deflected by him.

"Only that my silence on the capture of Jack the Ripper last spring is an extraordinary requirement. To obey it, I must have extraordinary support."

"I can't remain in America as your nursemaid for much longer," he warned.

"I never had, nor needed, a nursemaid. I'm telling you that I want a story. A story the entire world will marvel over. I don't care in what odd corner of the globe it may be found, and I know you are very familiar with the world's oddest corners. I want a sensation, and soon, or I will give Mr. Pulitzer the only such story I have: Jack the Ripper."

All pleasantries were over. Quentin Stanhope looked exasperated enough to consider beating me with his walking stick. Of course he did no such thing.

"Doing that would seriously antagonize the governments of several European nations, and the queen and prime minister of England."

"Not to mention Mr. Sherlock Holmes." I couldn't help laughing. "I'm not afraid of any of you. So perhaps you'd better think of another story I can pursue that will earn me the unbridled support of the governments of several European nations."

"I, and those I represent, do not deal with blackmailers."

"We have a free press in this country, Quentin. So free it's sometimes a free-for-all. All I'm asking for is one little global sensation. Surely in your bag of espionage tricks you can come up with a maharajah who beheads his wives . . . a modern Bluebeard. That would be a start."

"You Americans are a bloodthirsty lot."

"We just don't pretend to be 'civilized' when we're not. So. Will you find me another Jack the Ripper sensation?"

"My dear Pink," he said softly.

I imagine that Nell Huxleigh would have swooned if Quentin Stanhope had whispered her name with such exact articulation in her ear. I met his challenging glance with my own. He took my elbow a bit more firmly than needed and steered me along the street, away from the fascinating hole in the ground that would soon become my new professional home, the only home that truly mattered to me.

"My dear Pink," he repeated, "I will do my humble best to find you something to outdo catching Jack the Ripper. Only give me a little time."

"Of course. The new building will not be ready for some months. I want to be on the front page when it becomes a reality. Meanwhile, you can hobnob with your friends Irene and Nell. I imagine they won't much object to that."

His hand tightened on my elbow warningly.

"What I do has been called The Great Game in the eastern corner of the world, but I assure you, Pink, it is not a game and it is not safe to toy with me, merely because my hands are tied. They won't always be."

"This is not a game with me, either. I've never backed down from anybody, including my drunken brute of a step-father, which is why the name of Nellie Bly is a force in this city. I wish her to become a force in the whole wide world, that is all. Is that so bad?"