you don’t,” he said, pressing the bill into the driver’s lap. “Take it and buy a good dinner. There’s another coming to you if you answer my questions.”

The driver clutched the steering-wheel with both hands as he brought his knees together and pressed a leather toe upon the throttle. The taxi leaped by the traffic cop, dodged a bus and roared on down the Avenue until an open place was gained.

“Go slow,” said Fay. “Loaf along and let me get some dope for my article. Who owns the Gray Taxi Company?”

“James Ponsardin.”

“Proprietor of the morning Messenger?”

“Sure! He owns the company.”

“How many taxies?”

“Fifty running now.”

“Who manages it?”

“A girl!”

“What?”

“Sure! Her name is Elsie De Groot. She’s making it pay, too.”

“That’s interesting.” Fay stared into the alert face of the driver at the wheel. “Is she an ex-convict?”

“I never heard that said about her!”

“Loyal!” thought Chester Fay, shifting in his position. “You never heard,” he repeated aloud. “That’s definite. Do you keep records of passengers carried?”

“We make a report out at night. Miss Elsie gets them.”

“Do your taxies cover the steamship docks?”

“Sometimes—if there’s a call.”

Fay saw that he was in the presence of a very matter-of-fact young man who was making his own way in the world.

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