James Kent, among his other qualities good and bad, possessed a merciless opinion of his own shortcomings, but never, in that opinion, had he fallen so low as in the interval which immediately followed the closing of his door behind the mysterious girl who had told him that her name was Marette Radisson.

No sooner was she gone than the overwhelming superiority of her childlike cleverness smote him until, ashamed of himself, he burned red in his aloneness.
He, Sergeant Kent, the coolest man on the force next to Inspector Kedsty, the most dreaded of catechists when questioning criminals, the man who had won the reputation of facing quietly and with deadly sureness the most menacing of dangers, had been beaten--horribly beaten--by a girl! And yet, in defeat, an irrepressible and at times distorted sense of humor made him give credit to the victor.

The shame of the thing was his acknowledgment that a bit of feminine beauty had done the trick.

He had made fun of O'Connor when the big staff-sergeant had described the effect of the girl's eyes on Inspector Kedsty.

And, now, if O'Connor could know of what had happened here-- And then, like a rubber ball, that saving sense of humor bounced up out of the mess, and Kent found himself chuckling as his face grew cooler.
His visitor had come, and she had gone, and he knew no more about her than when she had entered his room, except that her very pretty name was Marette Radisson.