THE HEART LINE (continued 3)

"Yes, but that isn't so impossible as Kruger's castle out in the sand-hills by Tenth Avenue. It's a perfect jumble of job-lot buildings from the Mid-winter Fair, like a nightmare palace. I went out there once and saw old Mother Kruger, so tortured with rheumatism that she had to crawl round on her hands and knees. She had only one tooth left. The old man is one of the last of the wood-engravers and calls himself the Emperor of the Nations. He has resurrected Hannibal and an army of two hundred thousand men; also he revived Pompeii for three days. He wanted to bring Mayor Sutro back to life for me, but I wouldn't stand for it."

Cayley swept on with his anecdotes. "Who would believe the story of 'Big Bertha,' who buncoed all the swellest Hebrews in town, and ended by playing Mazeppa in tights at the Bella Union Theater? Who has written the true story of Dennis Kearney, the hack-driver, who had his speeches written for him by reporters, and went East with a big head, unconsciously to plagiarize Wendell Phillips in Fanueil Hall? Or of 'Mammy' Pleasant, the old negress who had such mysterious influence over so many millionaires—who couldn't be bribed—who died at last, with all her secrets untold? There's Romance in purple letters!

"What do you think of a first folio Shakespeare, the rent-roll of Stratford parish, and a collection of Incunabula worth thirty thousand dollars, kept in the deserted library on Montgomery Street in a case, by Jove, without a lock! What's the matter with Little Pete, the Chinaman, jobbing all the race-tracks in California? Who'd believe that there are streets here, within a mile of Lotta's fountain, so steep that they pasture cows on the grass?"

"Then there's Emperor Norton, and the Vigilance Committee, and all the secrets of the Chinatown slave trade," Clytie contributed, with aroused interest.

"Oh, I'm not speaking of that sort of thing. That's been done, and the East and England think that Romance departed from here with the red-shirted miner. Everybody knows about the Bret Harte type of adventure. It's the things that are going on now or have happened within a few years—like finding that Chinese woman's skeleton upside down, built into the wall of the house on the corner of Powell and Sutter; like Bill Dockery, the food inspector, who terrorized the San Bruno road, like a new Claude Duval, holding up the milkmen with a revolver and a lactometer, and went here, there and everywhere, into restaurants and hotels all over the peninsula, dumping watered milk into the streets till San Francisco ran white with it."

"Then there's Carminetti's," Clytie recalled, now. "That's modern enough, and typical of San Francisco, isn't it? I mean not so much what's done there, as the way they do it. I've always wanted to go down there some Saturday night and see just what it's like."

"I wouldn't want you to be seen there, Cly, it wouldn't do." Cayley shook his head decidedly.

"Why wouldn't it do?"

"It's a little too lively a crowd. You'd be disgusted, if they happened to hit things up a bit, as they often do."

"I don't see why I shouldn't be privileged to see what is going on. It's a part of my education, isn't it? It's all innocent enough, from what you say; it's at worst nothing but vulgar. I think I am proof against that."

"People would get an altogether wrong opinion of you. They'd think you were fast."

"I fast?" Clytie smiled. "I think I can risk that. I shouldn't probably want to go more than once, it's true. You don't know me, that's all. You don't believe that I can go from one world of convention to another and accept the new rules of life when it's necessary. It's just for that reason that I do wish to go—as, when I went to London, I wanted to see if I could accept all their slow, poky methods of business and transportation and everything and find out the reason of it all for myself, before I thought of criticizing it. I want to understand Carminetti's, if I can, and if you won't take me, I'll find some one who will."

"Granthope, perhaps?" Cayley suggested with irony.

"I have no doubt he'd understand my motives better than you do!"

"Well, it might be an interesting experiment. Miss Payson at Carminetti's—there's a San Francisco contrast for you!"

"You may add it to your list of Improbabilities. Study me, if you like, and put me in your list. You may find that I have a surprise or two left for you." She smiled to herself and threw back her head proudly.

"You do tempt me to try it," he said, coolly watching her. "You'd look as inconsistent there as those old French family portraits in that saloon out on the Beach—Lords of Les Baux, they were, I believe, administrators of the high justice, the middle and the low!

"And, oh!" he added, "that reminds me of another thing I found to-day while I was looking over a file of the Chronicle, digging up this trade dollar business. It was way back in 1877; a queer story, but I suppose it's true."

"What was it?" Clytie asked. The rays of the lamp shot her hair with gold sparks as she sat in a low chair, listening.

"Why, there was an old woman who was half crazy; she lived down south of Market Street somewhere in the most fearful squalor."

Clytie suddenly moved back into the shadow.

"Yes, yes,—what else?" She followed his words with absorbed attention.

"There was no furniture except a lot of boxes and a bookcase. And here's the remarkable thing: there was about two inches of rubbish and dirt matted down all over the floor, where she used to hide money and food and any old thing, wrapped in little packages. When she died, her stuff was auctioned off, and they found a trunk with a whole new wedding outfit in it. How's that?"

"What was her name?" Clytie asked breathlessly.

"I don't remember it. She was a sort of clairvoyant, I believe. There was a little boy lived with her, too. It seems he disappeared after she died. Ran away."

Clytie leaned forward again, her eyes wide open and staring. Her hands were tightly clasped together.

"A little boy?" she repeated.

"Why, that's what it said in the paper. Great story, isn't it?"

Clytie's breath came and went rapidly, as if she were trying to breathe in a storm, amidst the dashing of waves. The color went from her cheeks, her thin nostrils dilated. Then, retreating into the shade again, she managed to say:

"It certainly is romantic."

"No one would believe a thing like that could be true," he followed.

"No, I can scarcely believe it's possible, myself," she replied, controlling her agitation.

Blanchard Cayley ran on and on with his talk. Clytie gave him scant attention, answering in monosyllables.

CHAPTER V

THE RISE AND FALL OF GAY P. SUMMER

Two hours after leaving Granthope's studio, Mr. Gay P. Summer had "dated" Fancy Gray. Mr. Summer was a "Native Son of the Golden West"; he had, indeed, risen to the honorable station of Vice President of the Fort Point Parlor of that ecstatic organization. He was, in his modest way, a leader of men, and aspired to a corresponding mastery over women. In all matters pertaining to the pursuit and conquest of the fair sex, Mr. Summer was prompt, ingenious and determined. Before two weeks were over he was able to boast, to his room-mate, of Fancy's subjection. Fancy herself might equally well have boasted of his. At the end of this time he was, at least, in possession of her photograph, six notes written in a backward, slanting penmanship, twelve words to the damask page, with the date spelled out, a lock of hair (though this was arrant rape), and one gray suede, left-hand glove. These he displayed, as trophies of the chase, upon the bureau of his bedroom and defended them, forbye, from the asteistic comments of his room-mate, an unwilling and unconfessed admirer of Gay P. Summer's power to charm and subdue.

In those two weeks much had been done that it is not possible to do elsewhere than in the favored city by the Golden Gate. A Sunday excursion to the beach was the fruit of his first telephonic conversation. There are beaches in other places, indeed, but there is no other Carville-by-the-Sea. This capricious suburb, founded upon the shifting sands of "The Great Highway," as San Francisco's ocean boulevard is named, is a little, freakish hamlet, whose dwellings—one could not seriously call them houses—are built, for the most part, of old street-cars. The architecture is of a new order, frivolously inconsequent. According to the owner's fancy, the cars are placed side by side or one atop the other, arranged every way, in fact, except actually standing on end. From single cars, more or less adapted for temporary occupancy, to whimsical residences, in which the car appears only in rudimentary fragments, a suppressed motif suggested by rows of windows or by sliding doors, the owners' taste and originality have had wanton range. Balconies jut from roofs, piazzas inclose sides and fronts, cars are welded together, dovetailed, mortised, added as ells at right angles or used terminally as kitchens to otherwise normal habitations.

Gay P. Summer was, with his room-mate, the proprietor of a car of the more modest breed. It was a weather-worn, blistered, orange-colored affair that had once done service on Mission Street. The cash-box was still affixed to the interior, the platform, shaky as it was, still held; the gong above, though cracked, still rang. There was a partition dividing what they called their living-room, where the seats did service for bunks, from the kitchen, where they were bridged for a table and perforated for cupboards. There was a shaky canvas arrangement over a plank platform; and beneath, in the sand, was buried a treasure of beer bottles, iron knives, forks and spoons and wooden plates.

Here, unchaperoned and unmolested, save by the wind and sun, Gay P. Summer and Fancy Gray proceeded to get acquainted. They made short work of it.

Fancy's velvet cheeks were painted with a fine rose color that day. Her hair looked well in disorder; how much better it would have looked, had it kept its natural tone, she did not realize. Her firm, white line of zigzag teeth made her smile irresistible, even though she chewed gum. Her eyes were lambent, flickering from brown to green; her lower lids, shaded with violet, made them seem just wearied enough to give them softness. None of this was lost on Gay.

He, too, was well-developed, masculine, agile, with a juvenile glow and freshness of complexion that rivaled hers. His dress was jimp and artful, with tie and socks of the latest and most vivid mode. Upon his short, pearl, covert coat, he wore a mourning band, probably for decoration rather than as a badge of affliction. His eyes were still bright and clear without symptoms of dissipation. His laughter was good to hear, but, as to his talk, little would bear repetition—slangy badinage, the braggadocio of youth, a gay running fire of obvious retort and innuendo, frolic and flirtations. That Fancy appeared to enjoy it should go without saying. She was not for criticism of her host and entertainer that fine day. She let herself go in the way of gaiety he led and slanged him jest for jest, for Fancy herself had a pert and lively tongue.

Upon one point only did she fail to meet him. Not a word in regard to her employer could he get from her. Again and again, Gay came back to the subject of the palmist and his business secrets; Fancy parried his queries every time. He tried her with flattery—she laughed in his face. He attempted to lead her on by disclosing vivacious secrets of his own life; his ammunition was only wasted upon her. He coaxed; he threatened jocosely (she defended herself ably from his punitive kiss), but her discretion was impregnable. She made merry at his expense when he sulked. She tantalized him when he pleaded. Her wit was too nimble for him and he gave up the attempt.

The stimulation of this first meeting went to Fancy's head. She laughed like a child. She sang snatches from her vaudeville days and mimicked celebrities. Gay dropped his pose of worldly wisdom and made shrieking puns. They played like Babes in the Wood.

At seven o'clock, hungry and sun-burned, they walked along the beach to the Cliff House and dined upon the glazed veranda, watching the surf break on Seal Rocks. As they sat there in the dusk, haunted by an elusive waiter, Gay waxed eloquent about himself, told of his high office in the Native Sons, revealed the amount of his salary at the bank, touched lightly upon his previous amours, bragged loftily of his indiscretions at exuberant inebriated festivals, puffing magnificently the while at a "two-bit" cigar.

Fancy paid for her meal by listening to him conscientiously, ejaculating "No!" and "Yes?" or "Say, Gay, that's a josh, isn't it?" If her mind wandered (Fancy was nobody's fool), he did not perceive it.

To their cocktails and California claret they now added a Benedictine, and Gay grew still more confidential. The night fell, and the crowd began to leave. They walked entirely round the hotel corridor, bought an abalone shell split into layers of opalescent hues, then with a last look at the sea-lions, barking in the surge, they walked for the train, found a place in an open car and sat down, wedged into a hilarious crowd, reveling in song and peanuts.

Disregarded was the superb view they passed. The train, skirting the precipitous cliffs along the Golden Gate, commanded a splendor of darkling water and tumultuous mountain distances, theatrical in beauty. The sea splashed at the foot of the precipice beneath them. The hills rose above their heads, the intermittent twinkle of lighthouses punctuated the purple gloom. It was all lost upon them. Fancy's head drooped to Gay's shoulder. He put his arm about her, cocking his hat to one side that it might not strike hers as he leaned nearer. No one observed them, no one cared, for every Jack had his Jill, and a simple, primitive comradeship had settled upon the wearied throng. A baby whined occasionally as the train lurched round the sharp curves of the track. A riotous yell or two came from the misogynists of the smoking compartment. Fancy did not talk. Gay's loquacity oozed away. He was content to feel her breathing against his side.

There were telephone conversations often after that, then occasional lunches down-town, when Fancy, always modishly dressed, drew many an eye to her well-rounded, well-filled Eton jacket, her smart red hat, her fresh white gloves and her high-heeled shoes. Gay was proud of her, and he showed her off to his friends without caution. Fancy was nothing loath. Occasionally they went to the theater, dining previously in style at some popular restaurant, where Gay hoped that he might be seen with her. To such as discovered them, he would bow with proud proprietorship; or perhaps saunter over, on some flimsy pretext, to hear his friends say, with winks and smiles:

"By Jove, that girl's all right, old man! She's a stunner. Say, introduce me, will you?"

To which Gay would answer:

"Not on your folding bed! This is a close corporation, old man. I've got that claim staked out, see? So long!" and walk away pleased.

At the theater, he always made a point of going out between the acts, in order that his reëntry might point more conspicuously at his conquest. Afterward, at Zinkand's, having engaged a table beside which all the world must pass, he would pose, apparently oblivious to the crowd, talking to her with absorbed interest.

Fancy suffered the exhibition without displeasure. She had no objection to being looked at. To make a picture of herself, to play the arch and coquettish before a room of well-dressed folk was one of the things she did best.

She was recognized occasionally and pointed out by one or another of Granthope's patrons. "There she is; over behind you, in the white lace hat, with a chatelaine watch—don't look just yet, though," was the almost audible formula which Gay P. Summer learned to wait for. At such times his chest swelled with pride. To walk into a restaurant with her late at night and leave a wake of excited whispers behind him, was all he knew of fame.

It did not escape Gay's notice, however, that Fancy's eyes were not always for him. In the middle of his longest and most elaborate story, she would often throw a surreptitious glance about the room, letting it rest for an instant—a butterfly's caress—upon some admiring stalwart stranger. Once or twice he detected the flicker of Fancy's smile, a smile not meant for him. He found that, although his attention was all for Fancy, Fancy's errant glances allowed nothing and nobody to escape her observation. If he mentioned any one whom he had seen in the room, Fancy had seen him, or more often her, first. Fancy always knew what she wore, what it cost, what she was doing, how much she liked him and what her little game was.

This sort of thing would have been an education for Gay, had he been amenable to such teaching; but what women see and know without a tutor he would and could never know. Wherefore, such dialogues as this were common:

Fancy: "The brute! He's actually made her cry, now. She's a little fool, though; it's good enough for her!"

From Gay: "Where?—who do you mean?"

"Over there in the corner—don't stare so, please!—See those two fellows and two girls? The girl in the white waist is tied up in a heart-to-heart talk with that bald-headed chap, but she's dead in love with the other fellow, see? Yes, that fellow with the mustache. My! but she's jealous of the other girl."

"How can you tell? Oh, that's all a pipe-dream, Fancy!"

"Why, any fool would know it—any woman would, I mean. She had a few words with him—the fellow she's stuck on, just now! He must have said something pretty raw. Look at her eyes! You can tell from here there are tears in them. Look! See? I thought so. She's going to try and make him jealous! What do you think of that?"

"Why, she's changed places with him; what's that for?" To Gay, the drama was as mysterious as a Chinese play.

"Just to get him crazy, of course! That other fellow thinks she's really after him, too. The other girl sees through the whole game, of course. My, but men are easy! Those two fellows are certainly being worked good and plenty. Just look at the way she's freezing up to that bald-headed chap now. Well, I never! If that other girl isn't trying to get you on the string. Smile at her, Gay, and see what she'll do."

"Never mind about her!" said Gay, secretly pleased at the tribute. "You girls can always see a whole lot more than what really happens. She's just changed places on account of the draught, probably. She is lamping me, though, isn't she? Say, she's a peach, all right!"

"Yes, she's sure pretty. Say, Gay—"

"What?" His eye returned fondly to her.

"Do you think I'm as pretty as she is?"

"Oh, you make me tired, Fancy. Gee! You've got her sewed up in a sack for looks!"

So Fancy played her game cleverly, keeping Gay, but keeping him off at arm's length. But as time went on, his ardor grew and she was often at her wits' end to handle him. Though free from any conventional restraints, she did not yet consider her lips Mr. Summer's property, though she permitted him a cool and lifeless hand upon occasion. In time, the excitable youth began to understand her reserve; but instead of dampening his enthusiasm, it aroused his zest for the chase. She was not so easy game as he had thought. He waxed sentimental, therefore, and plied her with equivocal monologues, hinting, in the attempt to make sure of his way. At this, her sense of humor broke forth, effervescing in lively ridicule. This brought Mr. Summer, at last, to the point of an out-and-out proposal. Fancy, experienced in such situations, warned in time by his preludes, did not take it too seriously.

"I am sorry to say you draw a blank, Gay," she informed him lightly. "I'm not in the market yet. Many a man has expected me to become domesticated at sight, and settle down in content over the cookstove. But I haven't even a past yet—nothing but a rather tame present and hope for a future. I don't seem to see you in it, Gay. In fact, there's nobody visible to the naked eye at present."

"Well," he said, "I'll cut it out for now, as long as I can't make good, but sometime you'll come to me and beg me to marry you, see if you don't. Whenever you get ready, I'll be right there with the goods."

Fancy laughed and the episode was closed.

"Say, Fancy, there's a gang of artist chaps and literary guys I'd like to put you up against," Gay said one afternoon. "I think you'd make a hit with the bunch, if you can stand a little jollying."

"You watch me!" Fancy became enthusiastically interested. "Where do they hang out?"

"They eat at a joint down on Montgomery Street. They're heavy joshers, though. They're too clever for me, mostly. It's the real-thing Bohemia down there, though."

"Why didn't you tell me about it before?" she pouted. "I'm game! Let's float in there to-night and see the animals feed."

So they went down to the Latin Quarter together.

Bohemia has been variously described. Since Henri Murger's time, the definition has changed retrogressively, until now, what is commonly called Bohemia is a place where one is told, "This is Liberty Hall!"—and one is forced to drink beer whether one likes it or not, where not to like spaghetti is a crime. Not such was the little coterie of artists, writers and amateurs, who dined together every night at Fulda's restaurant.

In San Francisco is recruited a perennial crop of such petty soldiers of fortune. Here art receives scant recompense, and as soon as one gets one's head above water and begins to be recognized, existence is unendurable in a place where genius has no field for action. The artist, the writer or the musician must fly East to the great market-place, New York, or to the great forcing-bed, Paris, to bloom or fade, to live or die in competition with others in his field.

So the little artistic colonies shrink with defections or increase with the accession of hitherto unknown aspirants. Many go and never return. A few come back to breathe again the stimulating air of California, to see with new eyes its fresh, vivid color, its poetry, its romance. To have gone East and to have returned without abject failure is here, in the eyes of the vulgar, Art's patent of nobility. Of those who have been content to linger peaceably in the land of the lotus, some are earls without coronets, but one and all share a fierce, hot, passionate love of the soil. San Francisco has become a fetish, a cult. Under its blue skies and driving fogs is bred the most ardent loyalty in these United States. San Francisco is most magnificently herself of any American city, and San Franciscans, in consequence, are themselves with an abounding perfervid sincerity. Faults they have, lurid, pungent, staccato, but hypocrisy is not of them. That vice is never necessary.

The party that gathered nightly at Fulda's was as remote from the world as if it had been ensconced on a desert island. It was unconscious, unaffected, sufficient to itself. Men and girls had come and gone since it had formed, but the nucleal circle was always complete. Death and desertions were unacknowledged—else the gloom would have shut down and the wine, the red wine of the country, would have tasted salt with tears. There had been tragedies and comedies played out in that group, there were names spoken in whispers sometimes, there were silent toasts drunk; but if sentiment was there, it was disguised as folly. Life still thrilled in song. Youth was not yet dead. Art was long and exigent.

It was their custom, after dinner, to adjourn to Champoreau's for café noir, served in the French style. In this large, bare saloon, with sanded floor, with its bar and billiard table, foreign as France, almost always deserted at this hour save by their company, the genial patron smiled at their gaiety, as he prepared the long glasses of coffee. To-night, there were six at the round table.

Maxim, an artist unhailed as yet from the East, was, of all, the most obviously picturesque, with a fierce mustached face and a shock of black hair springing in a wild mass from his head to draggle in stringy locks below his eyes, or, with a sudden leonine shake, to be thrown back when he bellowed forth in song. He had been in Paris and knew the airs and argot of the most desperate studies. His laughter was like the roar of a convivial lion.

Dougal, with a dog-like face and tow hair, so ugly as to be refreshing, full of common sense and kindness, with a huge mouth full of little cramped teeth and a smile that drew and compelled and captured like a charm—he sat next. Good nature and loyalty dwelt in his narrow blue eyes. His slow, labored speech was seldom smothered, even in the wit that enveloped it.

Most masculine and imperative of all, was Benton, with his blur of blue-black hair, fine tangled threads, his melting, deep blue eyes, shadowy with fatigue, lighted with vagrant dreams or shot with brisk fires of passion. His hands were strong and he had an air of suppressed power.

The fourth man was Philip Starr, a poet not long for San Francisco, seeing that the Athanæum had already placed the laurels upon his brow—he was as far from the conventional type of poet as is possible. He had a lean, eager, sharply cut face, shrewd, quick eye and sinewy, long fingers. His hair was close cropped, his mouth was tight and narrow. Electricity seemed to dart from him as from a dynamo. Just now he was teaching the company a new song—an old one, rather, for it was an ancient Anglo-Saxon drinking-song, whose uproarious refrain was well fitted to the temper of the assembly.

At one end of the table sat a young woman, petite, elf-like as a little girl, a brown, cunning, soft-haired creature, smiling, smiling, smiling, with eyes half closed, wrinkled in quiet mirth. This was Elsie Dougal.

Opposite her was a girl of twenty-seven, with a handsome, clear-cut, classic face, lighted with gray eyes, limpid and straightforward, making her seem the most ingenuous of all. Mabel's hair curled unmanageably, springy and dark. Her face was serious and intent till her smile broke and a little self-conscious laugh escaped.

Starr pounded with one fist upon the table, his thumb held stiffly upright:

"Dance, Thumbakin, dance!"

he sang, and the chorus was repeated. Then with the heel of his palm and his fingers outstretched, pounding merrily in time:

"Oh, dance ye merrymen, every one,"

then with his fist as before:

"For Thumbakin, he can dance alone!"

and, raising his fists high over his head, coming down with a bang:

"For

"Thumbakin he can dance alone!"

They went through the song together, dancing Foreman, Middleman, and Littleman, ending in a pianissimo. Then over and over they sang that queer, ancient tune, till all knew it by heart.

Benton pulled his manuscript from his pocket and read it confidentially to Elsie, who smiled and smiled. Starr recited his last poem while Dougal made humorous comments. Maxim broke out into a French student's chanson, so wildly improper that it took two men to suppress him. Mabel giggled hysterically and began a long, dull story which, despite interruptions, ended so brilliantly and so unexpectedly, that every one wished he had listened.

Then Dougal called out:

"The cavalry charge! Ready! One finger!"

They tapped in unison, not too fast, each with a forefinger, upon the table.

"Two fingers!"

The sound increased in volume.

"Three fingers, four fingers, five!"

The crescendo rose.

"Two hands! One foot! BOTH FEET!"

There was a hurricane of galloping fists and soles. Then, in diminuendo:

"One foot! One hand! Four fingers, three, two, one! Halt!"

The clatter grew softer and softer till at last all was still.

As Gay opened the door, Fancy heard a roar that increased steadily until it became a wild hullabaloo. Looking in, she saw the six seated about the table, the coffee glasses jumping madly with the percussion. The noise was like the multitudinous charge of troopers. Then the tumult died slowly away, the patter grew softer and softer, ending in a sudden hush as seven faces looked up at her. Gay P. Summer's advent was greeted with frowns, but Fancy gathered an instant acclaim from twelve critical eyes.

She stepped boldly into the room and shed the radiance of her smile upon the company.

"I guess this is where I live, all right!" she announced. "I've been gone a long time, haven't I? Never mind the introductions. I'm Fancy Gray, drifter; welcome to our fair city!"

They let loose a cry of welcome, and Dougal, rising, opened a place for her between his chair and Maxim's.

"I'm for her!" He hailed her with a good-natured grin. "She's the right shape. Come and have coffee!"

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

Gay's reception was by no means as cordial as hers, which had been immediate and spontaneous at the sound of her caressing, jovial voice and the sight of her genial smile, which seemed to embrace each separate member of the party. They made grudging room for him beside Elsie, who gave him a cold little hand. Mabel bowed politely.

"Where'd you get her, Gay?" said Starr. "You're improving. She looks like a pretty good imitation of the real thing."

"Oh, I'll wash, all right," said Fancy.

Gay P. proudly introduced her to the company. He played her as he might play a trump to win the seventh trick. Indeed, without Fancy's aid, he would have received scant welcome at that exclusive board. Many and loud were the jests at Summer's expense while he was away. Many and soft were the jests he had not wit enough to understand when he was present. Philip Starr had, at first sight of him, dubbed him "The Scroyle," and this sobriquet stuck. Gay P. Summer was ill versed in Elizabethan lore, but, had his wit been greater, his conceit would still have protected him.

He had already unloaded Fancy, though he was as yet unaware of it. She was taken up with enthusiasm by the men, whom she drew like a magnet. Mabel and Elsie watched her with the keenness of women who are jealous of any new element in their group. It was, perhaps, not so much rivalry they feared, for their place was too well established, as the admittance into that circle of one who would betray a tendency toward those petty feline amenities that only women can perceive and resent.

But Fancy Gray showed no such symptoms. She did not bid for the men's attention. She made a point of talking to Elsie, and she managed cleverly to include Mabel in the attention she received. Fancy, in her turn, scrutinized the two girls artfully and made her own instantaneous deductions. All of this by-play was, of course, quite lost upon the men.

The talk sprang into new life and Fancy's eye ran from one to another member of the group, dwelling longest upon Dougal. His ugliness seemed to fascinate her; and, as is often the case with ugly men, he inspired her instant confidence. She made up to him without embarrassment or concealment, taking his hairy hand and caressing it openly. At this, Elsie's eyelids half closed, but there was no sign of jealousy. Mabel noticed the act, too, and her manner suddenly became warmer toward the girl. By these two feminine reactions, Fancy saw that she had done well.

They sang, they pounded the table; and, as an initiation, every man saluted Fancy's cheek. She took it like an empress. Then, suddenly, Dougal held up two fingers. Every one's eyes were turned upon him.

"Piedra, Pinta?" he cried, with a side glance at Fancy.

Every one voted. Mabel held up both her hands gleefully.

So was Fancy Gray, though she was not aware of the honor till afterward, admitted to the full comradeship of the Pintos. It was a victory. Many had, with the same ignorance as to what was happening, suffered an ignominious defeat. Fancy's election was unanimous.

And for this once, in gratitude for his discovery, Mr. Gay P. Summer, The Scroyle, was suffered to inflict himself upon the coterie of the Pintos.

There were other honors in store for Fancy Gray.

Piedra Pinta is two hours' journey from San Francisco to the north, in Marin County—a land of mountains, virgin redwood forests and trout-filled streams. One takes the ferry to Sausalito, crossing the northern bay, and rides for an hour or so up a little narrow-gage squirming railroad into the canyon of Paper Mill Creek; and, if one has discovered and appropriated the place, it is a mile walk up the track and a drop from the embankment down a gravelly, overgrown slope, into the camp-ground. Here a great crag rears its vertically split face, hidden in beeches and bay trees. At its foot a flattened fragment has fallen forward to do service as a fireplace. Beyond, there are more boulders in the stream, which here widens and deepens, overhung by clustering trees. Save when an occasional train rushes past overhead, or a fisherman comes by, wading up-stream, the place is secret and silent. Opposite, across the brook, an oat-field slopes upward to the country road and the smooth drumlins beyond. A not too noisy crowd can here lie hugger-mugger, hidden from the world.

To Piedra Pinta that next Saturday they came, bringing Fancy Gray, a smiling captive, with them. The men bore blankets and books; the women food and dishes enough for a picnic meal. They came singing, romping up the track, big Benton first with the heaviest load. In corduroys and jeans, in boots and flannel shirts they came. Little Elsie, like a girl scout, wore a rakish slouch hat trimmed with live carnations, a short skirt, leggings, a sheath knife swinging from her belt. Mabel had her own pearl-handled revolver. The rest looked like gipsies.

They slid down the bank and debouched with a shout into the little glade. Fancy entered with vim into the celebration. Not that she did any useful work, that was not her field; she was there chiefly as a decoration and an inspiration. She had dressed herself in khaki. Her boots were laced high, her sombrero permitted a shower of tinted tendrils to escape and wanton about her forehead. She found fragrant sprays of yerba buena and wreathed them about her neck.

It was all new and strange to her, all delightful. She had seen the artificial side of the town and knew the best and worst of its gaiety; but here, in the open for almost the first time, she breathed deeply of the primal joys of nature and was refreshed. Her curiosity was unlimited; she played with earth and water, fire and air. She unbuttoned the collar of her shirt-waist and turned it in, disclosing a delicious pink hollow at her throat. She rolled up her sleeves, displaying the dimples in her elbows. At the preparations for the dinner she was an eager spectator, and when the meal was served, smoked and sandy, and the bottles were opened, all traces of the fairy in her disappeared; she was simple girl. She ate like a cannibal and ate with glee.

The shadows fell. The nook became dusky, odorous, moist; the rivulet rippled pleasantly, the ferns moved lazily in the night airs. The moon arose and gave a mysterious argent illumination. The going and coming ceased, the shouting and lusty singing grew still. The blankets were opened and spread at the foot of the rock. Dougal and Elsie took their places in the center and, the men on one side and the girls on the other, they lay upon the ground and wrapped themselves against the cooling air. The fire was replenished and its glare lighted up the trees in planes of foliage, like painted sheets of scenery.

They lay down, but not to sleep. Dougal's coffee, black and strong, stimulated their brains. The talk ran on with an accompaniment of song and jest. One after another sprang up to sing some old-time tune or to recite a familiar, well-beloved poem; the dialogue jumped from one to the other. Some dozed and woke again at a chorus of laughter; some sat wide-eyed, staring into the fire, into the darkness, or into one another's eyes.

Maxim was prodigious. He blared forth rollicking airs, he did scenes from La Bohème, posturing picturesquely against the flame, his long black locks sweeping his face. Starr improvised while they listened, rapt. Benton climbed high into a beech tree and there, invisible, he recited Cynara and quoted The Song of the Sword, while Dougal jeered and fed the blaze. Mabel listened entranced and appreciative, and ventured occasionally on one more long, dull story—her tale always growing melodramatically exciting, as the attention of her listeners wandered. Elsie sat and smiled and smiled, wide awake till three.

Forgotten tales, snatches of song, jokes and verses surged into Fancy's head and one after another she shot them into the night. She, too, arose and sang, dancing. Not since her vaudeville days had she attempted it, but mounting to the spirit of the occasion, she thrilled and fascinated them with her drollery.

She and Dougal were the last ones awake. They spoke now in undertones. Maxim was snoring hideously, so was Benton. Starr lay with his mouth open, Mabel was curled into a cocoon of blankets, flushed Elsie was still smiling in her sleep.

At four the dawn appeared. They watched it spellbound, and as it turned from a glowing rose to straw color, the birds began to twitter in the boughs. Fancy shook off her lassitude.

"I'm going in swimming," she exclaimed, starting up. "Stay here, Dougal—I trust to your honor!"

"I'll not promise," he replied. "One doesn't often have a chance to see a nymph bathing in a fountain nowadays, but I have the artist's eye; it will only be for beauty's sake—go ahead!" He kept his place, nevertheless; the pool was invisible from the level of the camp-ground.

Fancy darted down the path to the wash of pebbles below. Dougal shook Elsie into a dazed wakefulness.

Mabel's eyes opened sleepily.

"Fancy's gone in swimming," he whispered. "Don't wake up the boys."

Like shadows the two girls slid after her. Dougal lay down to sleep.

In half an hour he was awakened by their return, fresh, rosy, dewy and jubilant. Elsie crawled to his side under the blankets; Fancy and Mabel scrambled up the bank to greet the sun, chattering like sparrows. Maxim rolled over in his sleep. Benton and Starr, back to back, dreamed on. The sun rose higher and smote the languid group with a shaft of light. The men rose at last, and, dismissing Elsie from the camp, took their turns in the pool. At seven Dougal announced breakfast.

At high noon, after a climb up the hill and an hour of poetry, Fancy was crowned queen of Piedra Pinta, with pomp and circumstance. She was invested with a crown of bay leaves and, for a scepter, the camp poker was placed in her hand. Dougal, as her prime minister, waxed merry, while her loyal lieges passed before her to do her homage. She greeted them one by one: The Duke of Russian Hill, with his tribute of three square meals per week; Lord of the Barbary Coast; Elsie, Lady of Lime Point, Mistress of the Robes; Sir Maxim the Monster, Court Painter; Sir Starr of Tar Flat, Laureate; and Mabel the Fair, Marchioness of Mount Tamalpais, First Lady of the Bedchamber, to keep her warm.

She issued many titles after that, as her domain increased, and as "Fancy I," she always styled herself in signing her letters. Her royal edicts were not often slighted.

For she was gay and young, and she was bold and free. Life had scarcely touched her yet with care. This was her apotheosis. The scene went down in the annals of the Pintos and the tradition spread. Her reign was famous. Her accolade was a smile. Her homage was paid in kisses—and in tears.

Yet Fancy Gray was not a girl to commit herself to any one particular set. Her tastes were eclectic. She was essentially adventurous. It was her boast that she never made a promise and never broke one—that she never explained—that she liked everybody, and nobody. She guarded her independence jealously, restless at every restraint. With the friend of the moment she was everything. When he passed out of sight, she devoted an equal attention to the next comer, and she was faithful to both.

She was often seen with Granthope dining or at the theater. Mabel and Elsie whispered together, adding glances to smiles, and frowns to blushes, summing them up according to the feminine rules of psychological arithmetic. The men did not even wonder—it was none of their business, and was she not Fancy Gray? When they were seen together, they were conspicuously picturesque. Granthope had an air, Fancy had a manner, the two harmonized perfectly.

Mr. Gay P. Summer, meanwhile, had by no means given up the chase. He was not one to be easily snubbed, and the only effect of the slight put upon him by the Pintos was to make him seek after Fancy still more energetically, and while he paid court to her, to keep her away from the attractions of that engaging set. Fancy accepted his attentions with condescension. After all, a dinner was a dinner—her own way of putting it was that she always hated to refuse "free eggs."

He still tried his best to draw her out, but when he asked her about Granthope, she gave a passionate, indignant refutation of his innuendoes.

"I owe that man everything, everything!" she exclaimed. "He took me when I was walking the streets, hungry, without a cent, and he has been good to me ever since! He's all right! And any one who says anything against him is crossed off my list!"

This was at Zinkand's. The slur had been occasioned by the sight of Granthope at table with a lady whom Gay knew rather too much about. It happened that there was another group in the room that drew Fancy's roving eye and nimble comment. She asked about the man with the pointed beard.

"Oh, that's Blanchard Cayley—everybody knows him," Gay explained. "He's a rounder. I see him everywhere. No, I don't know him to speak to, but they say he's a clever chap. I wonder who that is with him, though? I've seen her before, somewhere."

"I know," said Fancy; "that's Mrs. Page."

"H'm! Funny, every time I see her she's with a different man. She's pretty gay, that woman."

"Is she? You're a cad to tell of it."

"Why? Do you know her?"

She scorned to answer.

On a Sunday night soon after, Gay invited her to dinner at Carminetti's. She accepted, never having gone to the place, which was then in the height of its prestige, a resort for the most uproarious spirits of the town.

It was down near the harbor front, a region of warehouses, factories, freight tracks and desecrated, melancholy buildings, disheveled and squalid, that Mr. Summer took her. He pushed open the door to let upon her a wave of light frivolity and the mingled odor of Italian oil and wine permeated by an under-current of fried food. The tables were all filled, some with six or eight diners at one board, and by the counter or bar, which ran all along one side of the room, there were at least a dozen persons waiting for seats. Gay walked up to bald-headed "Dave," the patron, who in his shirt-sleeves was superintending the confusion, keeping an eye ready for rising disorder. After a quick colloquy, he beckoned to Fancy, who followed him down between the gay groups to a table in a corner. It was just being deserted by a short young hoodlum, with a pink and green striped sweater, accompanied by a girl several inches too tall for him, dressed in a soiled buff raglan and a triumphal hat.

"Here we are," said Gay; "we're in luck to get a table at all, to-night. But I gave Dave a four-bit piece and that fixed it."

Fancy sat down and looked about. "It is pretty gay, isn't it? It looks as if it were going to be fun."

"Oh, you wait till nine o'clock," Gay boasted wisely. "They're not warmed up to it yet. The 'Dago Red' hasn't got in its work. There'll be something doing, after a while."

The walls were decorated with beer- and wine-signs in frames, and on either side of the huge mirror hung lithographic portraits of Humberto and the Queen of Italy. Opposite, a row of windows looking on the street was hung with half-curtains of a harsh, disagreeable blue; over them peeped, now and again, wayfarers or others who had dined too well, rapping on the glass and gesticulating to those inside. All about the sides of the room and upon every column, hats, coats and cloaks were hung, making the place seem like an old-clothes shop. The floor was covered with sawdust and the tables were huddled closely together.

For the most part the diners were all young—mechanics, clerks, factory girls and the like though here and there, watching the sport, were up-town parties, reveling in an unconventional air. The groups, now well on in their dinner, had begun to fraternize. Here a young man raised his wine-glass to a pretty girl across the room and the two drank together, smiling, or calling out some easy witticism. In one corner, a party of eight was singing jovially something about: "One day to him a letter there did come," and anon, encouraged by the applause and the freedom, a lad of nineteen, devoid of collar, closed his eyes, leaned back and sang a long song through in a vibrant, harsh voice. He was greeted with applause, hands clapped, feet pounded and knives clattered on bottles till the patron hurried from table to table quelling the pandemonium. Waiters came and went in bustling fervor, dodging between one table and another, jostling and spilling soup; at intervals a great clanging bell rang and the apparition of a soiled white cook appeared at the kitchen door ordering the waiters to: "Take it away!" The kitchen was an arcade into which from time to time guests wandered, to joke with the cook and beat upon the huge immaculate copper kettles on the wall.

The conversation at times became almost general, the party of songsters in the corner leading in the exchange of persiflage. Two girls dining alone, with hard, tired-looking eyes and cheap jewelry, began a duet; instantly, from a company of young men, two detached themselves, plates and glasses in hand, and went over to join them. A roar went up; glasses rang again and Dave fluttered about in protest at the noise.

Fancy talked little. The crowd, the lights, the camaraderie hypnotized her. She watched first one and then another group, picking out, for Gay's edification, the prettiest girl and the handsomest man in the room. She waved her hand slyly at the collarless soloist and applauded two darkies who came in from outside to make a hideous clamor with banjos. As she waited to be served, she nibbled at the dry French bread and drank of the sour claret, watching over the top of her glass, losing nothing.

In the middle of the room, Blanchard Cayley sat with three ladies. One of them Fancy recognized as Miss Payson. Fancy's eyebrows rose slightly at seeing her, and a smile and a nod were cordially exchanged. The others Fancy did not know. They were both pretty women, well-dressed, with evident signs of breeding, and, as the urn waxed freer, apparently not a little embarrassed at being seen in such a place. Miss Payson showed no such feeling in her demeanor, however much she may have been amused or surprised at the spirit of the place. Blanchard Cayley divided his attentions equitably amongst them, till, looking across the room, he caught Fancy's errant glance. He smiled at her openly as if challenging her roguery.

She boldly returned the greeting. Gay caught the glance that was exchanged.

"See here, Fancy," he protested, "none of that now! He's got all he can do to attend to his own table. I'll attend to this one, myself."

Now, this was scarcely the way to treat a girl like Fancy Gray. At her first opportunity, she sent another smile in Cayley's direction. It was divided, this time, by members of his own party and the women began to buzz together. Gay was annoyed.

"There's something I like about that man," Fancy remarked presently. "What'd you say his name was? That's the one we saw at Zinkand's, wasn't it?"

"There's something I don't like about him. He'd better mind his own business," Gay growled, now thoroughly provoked.

"You can't blame any one for noticing me, can you, Gay?" Her tone was honey-sweet.

"I can blame you for flirting across the room when you're here with me!" he replied fiercely.

Fancy opened her eyes very wide. "Indeed?" she said with a sarcastic emphasis.

"That's right," he affirmed.

In answer, she cast another languishing glance toward Cayley. Cayley, despite Clytie's entreating hand upon his arm, sent back an unequivocal reply.

"Well," said Gay, rising sullenly, "I guess it's up to me to leave!" He reached for his hat.

"Oh, Gay!" she protested in alarm, "you're not going to throw me down before this whole crowd, are you?" Already their colloquy had attracted the attention of the near-by tables.

He hesitated a moment. "Unless you behave yourself," he said finally. His tone of ownership decided her.

"Run along, then!" She gave him a smile of limpid simplicity, but her jaws were set determinedly. "I expect I can get some one to take care of me. Don't mind me!"

Their discussion had not been unnoticed at Mr. Cayley's table. Clytie was watching the pair interestedly, as if reading the motions of their lips. Fancy caught her eye and flushed a little.

Gay's brows gathered together in a sullen look as he crowded his hat upon his head savagely. He turned with a last retort:

"You'll be sorry you threw me down, Fancy Gray! You want too many men on the string at once!"

He turned and left her, passing sulkily along the passages between the tables with his hat on his head, till he came to the cashier, where he paid the bill for two dinners with lordly chivalry. Then, without looking back, he opened the door of the restaurant and went out.

An instant after, Fancy was on her feet. Gay's going had already made her conspicuous and her flush grew deeper. Cayley watched her without smiling, now, waiting to see what she would do. Beside him, Clytie Payson sat watching, her lips slightly parted, her nostrils dilated, absorbed, seeming to understand the situation perfectly, her eyes gazing at Fancy as if to convey her sympathy. Fancy looked and saw her there, and the sight steadied her. With all her customary nonchalance, with all that jovial, compelling air of optimism which she usually radiated, as if she were quite sure of her reception and came as an expected guest, she sauntered carelessly over to the central table.

Her smile was dazzling as it swept about the board, meeting the eyes of each of the women in turn. One by one it subjugated them. They even returned it with trepidation, not too embarrassed to be keenly expectant, waiting for the outcome. But it was for Clytie that Fancy Gray reserved her warmest, deepest look. In that glance she threw herself upon Miss Payson's mercy, and appealed to the innate chivalry of woman to woman, to the bond of sex—a sentiment in finer women more potent than jealousy.

Even before she spoke Clytie had arisen and stretched out her hand. In a flash she had accepted what had run counter to all her experience, and played up to Fancy's audacity with a spirit that ignored the crowd, the eyes, the whispers.

Who, indeed, could resist Fancy Gray in such a fantastic, tiptoe mood? Her act, audacious, even impertinent, was so delicately achieved, she was so sure of herself and her own charm that it was dramatic, poetic in its confidence, picturesque. But no one could have equalled Clytie as she arose to meet such bravado, when she shook off her reserves and took her hand at such a psychological game. Not even Fancy Gray, with all her superb poise. On Fancy's cheek the color deepened—it was she who blushed so furiously, now, not Clytie. In that flush she confessed herself beaten at her own game.

"How do you do?" Clytie was saying. "We've been wishing all the evening that we could have you with us. Do sit down, here, beside me—we'll make room for you. I want you to meet Miss Gray, Mrs. Maxwell."

Something in the graciousness of her manner drew the other women up to her chivalrous level. Mrs. Maxwell bowed, smiled, too, with a word of welcome, so did Miss Dean as she was introduced. Fancy beamed. Meanwhile Cayley had arisen. He was the most perturbed of all. He offered his chair.

"You see what you've done, Mr. Cayley," said Fancy. "I've just been jilted for the first time in my life, and it was all your fault. I'm afraid I shall have to butt in and ask you to protect me!"

It was not Fancy but Clytie who had, apparently, most surprised him. He gave a questioning look at her as he replied, not a little confused:

"Won't you sit down here in my place? There's plenty of room. I'll get another chair—or," he stole another glance at Clytie, "I'll let you have half of mine!"

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

Clytie smiled encouragingly. "I'll divide mine with you, too, if you like."

"You're a gentleman! I'd much rather sit with you, Miss Payson; thank you!" Then she looked at Clytie fondly. "I thought I was right about you! You are a thoroughbred, aren't you?"

"We're educating Mr. Cayley, my dear." Clytie gave him a bright smile. "He has a few things yet to learn about women."

"I plead guilty," said Cayley, watching the two with curiosity.

"Miss Gray and I are disciples of the same school. She gave me the password." Clytie was fairly superb—she even outshone Fancy—she was regal.

Fancy laughed. "You're the only one who knows it, that I ever met, though."

"Ah," said Clytie, "then that's the only way I can beat you—I believe many women are initiated."

Fancy clapped her hands softly in pantomime. Then she turned to Mrs. Maxwell and the others. "I hope I'm not out of the frying-pan into the fire," she said. "Please let me down easy, ladies. If you don't make me feel at home pretty quick, I'll be up against it I You don't really have to know me, you know. Only it looked to me like when he had three such pretty women to take care of one more ought to be easy enough."

"We were three pretty women before, perhaps, my dear, but now I'm afraid we're only one!" said Clytie. She herself, kindled with the spirit of adventure, and so adequately welcoming it, was irresistible.

Fancy blew a pretty kiss at her. "No man would know enough to say anything as nice as that, would he? But I'm afraid I can't trot in your class, Miss Payson. Why, every man in the room has been watching you all the evening. I really ought to sit beside Mrs. Maxwell, though, to show her off. It takes these brunettes to make me look outclassed, doesn't it? I used to be a brunette myself, but I reformed. Mr. Cayley, you may hold me on, if you like. And remember, when I kick you under the table it's a hint for you to say something about my hands." She laid them on the table-cloth ingenuously.

Clytie took one up and showed it to Mrs. Maxwell. "Did you ever see a prettier wrist than that?" she said.

"It's charming! I'm afraid she'd never be able to wear my gloves."

Fancy smiled good-temperedly. "That second finger is supposed to be perfect," she said, looking at it reflectively.

"It's queer that the fourth one hasn't a diamond on it," Mrs. Maxwell suggested amiably.

"It's only because I hate to fry my own eggs. I never could learn to play on the cook-stove."

"My dear, you'll never have to do that," said Clytie. "No man would be brute enough to endanger such a complexion as you have!"

Fancy rubbed her cheek. "Good enough to raise a blush on. Has it worn off yet? I wish you could make me do it again; I'd rather wear a good No. 5 blush than a silk-lined skirt."

The third lady at the table was thin and dark, a piquante, sharp-featured girl, with a dancing devil in her eyes. She had been watching Fancy with an amused smile. "I thought I'd seen you before," she said. "Now I remember. You're the young lady at Granthope's, aren't you?"

"Yes, that's my tag. I suppose I am entered for a regular blue-ribbon freak. But I've seen you, too, Miss Dean, once or twice, haven't I?"

Miss Dean hastened to say, "Mr. Granthope's a wonderful palmist, isn't he? He has told me some extraordinary things about myself." She held out her hand. "Do tell me what you think about my palm, please!"

But Fancy refused. "Oh, I don't want to make enemies, just as we've begun to break the ice. Every one would be jealous of the other, if I told you what I saw. Besides, I ought to be drumming up more trade for Mr. Granthope."

"How long have you been with him?" Cayley asked.

"Oh, about five years."

Clytie bit her lip. Granthope himself had said two.

"He has been fortunate to have such an able assistant as you," she said.

"Oh, Frank's been mighty good to me. I owe him everything." Fancy said it almost aggressively.

Cayley caught Clytie's eye, and he smiled.

"Well, Blanchard," she said, disregarding his hint, "am I in your list of Improbabilities now?"

"You're easily first! You certainly have surprised me."

Heretofore Mrs. Maxwell, as chaperon of the party, had been the star, but now Clytie, with her intuitive grip on this human complication, established Fancy as the guest of honor. She drank Fancy's health, and Fancy's smile became more opulent and irresistible. She kept Fancy's quick retorts going like fire-crackers, she manipulated the conversation so that it came back to Fancy at each digression. She put Fancy Gray in the center of the stage and kept her there in the calcium till her buoyant spirits soared.

"Drink with Fancy!" cried Fancy Gray, and the company, Mrs. Maxwell included, did her honor. "Drink with Fancy," she pleaded again, with a pretty, infantile pout, and Clytie knocked glasses with her every time. "Drink with Fancy," she repeated, and Cayley drew closer. It did not, apparently, daunt Clytie. She had accepted Fancy Gray as Fancy Gray had accepted her, and she did not withdraw an inch from her position. The talk ran on, with Fancy always the center of interest. Her sallies were original, brisk, and often witty. Fancy's brain grew more agile and more bold. Also, her glances played more softly upon Blanchard Cayley. He made the most of them, with an eye on Clytie, awaiting her look of protest. But it did not come.

About them the revelry still continued amidst the clattering of knives and forks and dishes. Course after course had been brought on and removed by the hurrying, overworked waiters. Once, a madcap couple arose to dance a cake-walk up and down between the tables. Of the group of eight singers in the corner, three had fallen into a mild stupor, three were affectionately maudlin; two, still mirthful, sang noisily, pounding upon the table.

By twos and threes, now, parties began to leave.

There was a popular song swinging through the room, accented by tinkling glasses, when Fancy reached out her left hand, and took Clytie's.

"I must be going, now; good night."

Clytie held the hand. "Oh, must you? Wait and let us put you on your car, anyway!"

"No, I'll drift along. I can take care of myself, all right."

She stopped, and, with her head slightly tilted to one side, looked Clytie in the eyes.

"What did you go to Granthope's for?" she asked.

Clytie began to color, faintly. She seemed, at first, at a loss to know how to reply.

Fancy prompted her. "For a reading, of course—but what else?"

"I don't know," said Clytie seriously. "Really I don't."

"That's what I thought!" said Fancy. Then her troubled brow cleared, and she turned to Cayley.

"I must say 'fare-thee-well, my Clementine,'" she said. "You certainly came to the scratch nobly. I hope it wasn't all Miss Payson's prompting, though!"

"Next time I hope I'll be able to bring you," he answered. "I'm sorry I can't take you home now."

"Who said I was going home?" she smiled. Then she looked at him, too, and spoke to him with a variation of the quizzical tone she had used toward Clytie. "I don't know what there is about you that makes such a hit with me—what is it?"

"The dagoes say I have the evil eye," he replied.

She laughed. "That's it! I thought it was something nice!"

Then she rose and bowed debonairly to Mrs. Maxwell and Miss Dean. "Good night, ladies, this is where I disappear. I'm afraid you've impregnated me with social aspirations. Watch for me at the Fortnightly!"

The collarless youth stretched a glass toward her in salutation and sang: "Good-by, Dolly Gray!" There was a burst of laughter that drew all eyes to Fancy Gray.

Cayley held her coat for her, and as she turned to him with thanks, a sudden mad impulse stirred her; she audaciously put up her lips to be kissed. He did not fail her. The ladies at the table looked on, catching breath, stopping their talk. A waiter, passing, stood transfixed. Every one watched. Then a cheer broke out and a clapping of hands all over the restaurant.

Fancy Gray bowed to her audience with dignity, as if she were on the stage. Then, with a comprehensive nod to her entertainers, she passed demurely down the aisle between the tables. Every eye followed her.

At the counter she turned her head to see Blanchard Cayley still standing by his place. She came hurriedly back as if drawn by some magic spell, blushing hotly, with a strange look in her eyes. She looked up at him as a little girl might look up at her father. The room was hushed. It was too much for that audience to comprehend. The act had almost lost its effrontery; the audacity had become, somehow, pathos.

Fancy walked like a somnambulist, her eyes wide open, staring at Blanchard. He had turned paler, but stood still, with his gaze fastened upon her, reveling, characteristically, in a new sensation. The ladies in his party did not speak. Nobody spoke. The room was like a well-governed school at study hour, every eye fixed upon Fancy Gray. Whatever secret emotion it was that drew her back, it was for its moment compelling, casting out every trace of self-consciousness. She seemed to show her naked soul. She reached him, and again he put his arms about her and kissed her full on the lips. Again the tumult broke forth.

In that din and confusion she slipped back to the door. There was another hush. Then the crowd gasped audibly and tongues were loosened in a babel of exclamations. With a cry, some one pointed to the window. There stood Fancy Gray, pressing through the glass, histrionically, one last kiss to Cayley—and disappeared into the night. Half a dozen men jumped up to follow her, and turned back to account for a new silence that had abruptly fallen on the room.

Blanchard Cayley was still standing. He had snatched a wine-glass from the table, and now, with a silencing gesture, he held it above his head. He was perfectly calm, he had lost nothing of his usual elegance of manner.

"I don't know who she is, but here's to her!" he called out to the roomful of listeners. "Bottoms-up, everybody!"

He drank off his toast. Glasses were raised all over the room. Men sprang upon their chairs, put one foot on the table and drank Fancy Gray's health. Then the crowd yelled again.

In the confusion Mrs. Maxwell leaned to Clytie. "I don't know, my dear, whether I'll dare to chaperon you here again!" She herself was as excited as any one there.

Frankie Dean's thin lips curled in a sneer. "Oh, they call this Bohemia, don't they! Did you ever see anything so cheap and vulgar in your life? I feel positively dirty!"

Cayley watched for Clytie's answer. It came with a jet of fervor. "Why," she exclaimed, "don't you see it's real? It's real! It isn't the way we care to do things, but they're all alive and human—every one of them!"

"Bah! It's all a pose. They're pretending they're devilish."

"I don't care!" Clytie's eyes fired. "Even so, there's a live person in each of them—they're just as real as we are. I never understood it before. Look under the surface of it—there's blood there!"

"It's San Francisco!" said Cayley, "that explains everything. Oh, this town!" He sat down shaking his head.

The old patron bustled excitedly through the room.

"Take-a de foot off de table! Take-a de foot off de table!" he protested. "You spoil the table clot'—you break-a de dishes! I don't like dat! Get down, you! Get down!"

CHAPTER VI

SIDE LIGHTS

"Mrs. Chenoweth Maxwell would be very glad to see Mr. Francis Granthope next Friday evening at nine o'clock for an informal Chinese costume supper. Kindly arrive masked."

This invitation marked a climacteric in Granthope's social career. It was supplemented by an explanation over the telephone that left no doubt in the mind of the palmist as to the genuineness and friendliness of its cordiality. He had appeared already at several assemblies of the smarter set and had, by this time, a considerable acquaintance with the fashionable side of town. Of the information thus acquired he had made good use in his business. He had always gone, however, in his professional capacity as a paid entertainer; and no matter how considerately he had been treated, the fact that he was not present as a guest had always been obvious. He was in a class with the operatic star who consents to sing in private and maintains her delicate position of unstable social equilibrium with sensitive self-consciousness. In his rise from obscurity, at first, he had been pleased with such invitations, seeing that they brought him money and an increasing fame. He was now sought after as a picturesque and personable character. Women evinced a fearful delight in his presence; they treated him sometimes as if he were a handsome highwayman, tamed to drawing-room amenities, sometimes as they treated those mysterious Hindus in robes and turbans who occasionally appeared to prate of esoteric faiths in the salons of the Illuminati.

Granthope's sense of humor and his cynical view of life, had, so far, been sufficient to preserve his equanimity at the threshold of fashionable society. His equivocal position was tolerable, for he knew well enough what a sham the whole game was, and how artificial was the social position which permitted a woman to snub him or patronize him in public, and did not prevent her following him up in private. He had seen ladies raise their eyebrows at his appearance in the Western Addition, who had visited him for a chance to talk to him with astonishing egotism.

There was a strain in him, however, the heritage of some unknown ancestry, that, since meeting Miss Payson, began to give him more and more discomfort in the presence of such company. He had risen above the level of the mere professional entertainer, and had become fastidious. Clytie had met him upon terms of equality. Her frankness had flattered him, and her implied promise of friendship was like the opening of a door which had, hitherto, always been shut to him.

Mrs. Maxwell's bid, therefore, was a distinct advance, and he welcomed it, not so much because it unlocked for him a new sort of recognition, as that it furthered the game he had in hand. He could scarce have defined that game to himself. He was playing neither for position nor money nor power—his sport was perhaps as purely intellectual as that of chess, a delight in the pitting of his mind against others.

Mrs. Maxwell, with the tact of a woman of sensibility, had made it plain to him that he was invited for his own sake, upon terms of hospitality. As a lion, yes, she could not deny that. She confessed that she wished to tell people that he was coming—but he would not be annoyed by requests for entertainment. With another, he might have suspected that this was only a subterfuge to avoid the necessity of paying him his price, but Mrs. Maxwell's character was too well known to him for that possibility to be entertained.

He set himself, therefore, to obtain a costume for the affair at the "House of Increasing Prosperity," known to Americans as the shop of Chew Hing Lung and Company. With the assistance of the affable and discerning Li Go Ball, the only Chinese in the quarter who seemed to know what he required, Granthope selected his outfit, a costume of the character worn by the more prosperous merchant class of Celestials.

Granthope had fitted up the room next beyond his studio for a bed-chamber and sitting-room, access to it being had through the heavy velvet arras concealing the door between the two apartments. The place was severely masculine in its appointments and order, but bespoke the tasteful employment of considerable money. Here he had his library also, for since his earliest youth he had been a great reader. Prominent on its shelves were many volumes of medical books, and, to offset this sobriety, the lives and memoirs of the famous adventurers of history—Casanova, Cagliostro, Fenestre, Abbé Faublas, Benvenuto Cellini, Salvator Rosa, Chevalier d'Eon.

A massive Jewish seven-branch candlestick illuminated the place this evening, splashing with yellow lights the carved gilded frame of a huge oval mirror, glowing on the belly of a bronze vase, enriching the depths of color in the dull green walls, smoldering in the warm tones of the great Persian rug on the floor, twinkling upon the polished surface of the heavy mahogany table in the center of the room. But it was concentrated chiefly upon the gorgeous oriental hues where his Chinese costume was flung, flaming upon the couch. There the colors were commingled as on an artist's palette, cold steel blue, pale lemon yellow, olive green that was nearly old gold, lavender that was almost pink in the candle-light, a circle of red inside the cap, and flashes of pale cream-colored bamboo paper here and there.

He had already put on the silken undersuit, a costume in itself, with its straight-falling lines and complementary colors. Fancy Gray was helping him with the other garments, enjoying it as much as a little girl dressing a doll, trying on each article herself first and posing in it before the mirror.

First, she wrapped the bottom of his lavender trousers about his ankles, over white cotton socks, tying them close with the silk bands, carefully concealing the knot and ends as Go Ball had instructed him. She held the black boat-shaped satin shoes for him to put on. Next she tied about his waist the pale yellow sash so that both ends met at the side and hung together in two striped party-colored ends. Then the short, padded jacket, and over all this the long, steel-blue, brocaded silk robe, caught in at the waist with a corded belt. Lastly the olive-green coat patterned with brocaded mons containing the swastika, and with long sleeves almost hiding the tips of his fingers. Upon its gold bullet-shaped buttons she hung the tasseled spectacle-case and his ivory snuff-box.

"Oh, Frank, I forgot!" said Fancy, as she paused with his wig of horse-hair eked out with braided silk threads, in her hand. "Lucie was here to-day."

Granthope was at the mirror, disguising himself with a long, drooping mustache and thin goatee. He put down his bottle of liquid gum and turned to her.

"What did she say?"

"Why, she said she didn't have time to wait, and didn't want to tell me anything."

"Why didn't she write?"

"Said she was afraid to. You're to manage some way to see her to-night, if you can, and she has a tip for you."

"H'm!" Granthope, with Fancy's assistance, drew on the wig, and clapped over his black satin skullcap with its red coral button atop. Then he paused again reflectively.

"It must be something important. If I can only get hold of some good scandal in this 'four hundred' crowd I can have some fun with 'em."

"I should be afraid to trust these ladies' maids; they might give you away any time, and then where'd you be? That would be a pretty good scandal, itself." Fancy shook her head.

"Aren't they all in love with me?" he said, smiling grimly.

Fancy looked dubious. "That's just the trouble. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'"

Granthope now laughed outright. "Fancy, when you get literary you're too funny for words."

She bridled, stuck out her little pointed tongue at him, and walked into the front office, where she sat down to attend to some details of her own work. At last she finished her writing and went to the closet to put on her hat and jacket.

"Oh, Frank!" she called out.

"Yes, Fancy!"

"You don't think I'm jealous, do you?"

"Yes!" he laughed.

She appeared at the doorway and called again:

"Mr. Granthope!" He was busy, and did not answer.

"Mr. Granthope!"

He looked up, now, to see her put her thumb to her nose with a playfully derisive gesture, such as gamins use.

He put his head back and laughed.

Then she looked at him seriously, saying, "When I am, you'll never know it. I'm not afraid of ladies' maids. When you really get into your own class it will be time enough for me to worry. But I wish you wouldn't use those girls. They're all cats, and they'll scratch!"

She was standing before the mirror inside the closet door, with her hat pin between her lips, adjusting her toque to the masses of her russet hair, when there came a knock at the hall door. She looked round and raised her eyebrows, then, after closing the door to the anteroom of the studio, she called "Come in!"

Madam Spoll, in a black silk gown covered with a raglan, entered. She wore a man's small, low-crowned, Derby hat trimmed with a yellow bird's wing.

"How d'you do?" said Fancy, not too cordially.

"Good evening," Madam Spoll panted; then, as her breath was spent with climbing the stairs, she dropped into a chair and gasped heavily. Fancy went on with her preparations without further attention to her visitor.

"Frank in?" was Madam Spoll's query as soon as she could breathe.

"Meaning Mr. Granthope?" said Fancy airily.

"You know who I mean well enough!" was her pettish reply.

"Oh, do I?"—and Fancy, her costume now in readiness for the street, walked jauntily into the anteroom and knocked at the door. "Madam Spoll is here to see you," she called out.

"Just a moment," he answered.

Fancy, pulling her jacket behind, wriggling, and smoothing down her skirt over her hips, walked to the window and cast a glance out. Then she slammed the drawers of her desk, put a hair-pin between the leaves of her novel, straightened her pen-holders on the stand, stoppered a red-ink bottle, and marched out without looking to the left or to the right.

Madam Spoll glared at her in silence till she had gone; and then, with an agility extraordinary in so stout a woman, she sprang to the closet, opened the door and picked up an envelope lying on the floor. It had been opened. She took the letter out, gave it a hurried glance and then returned to her seat, stuffing the paper up under her basque.

The letter was short enough for her practised eye to master the contents almost at a glance. It ran:

My dear Mr. Granthope:—I hope you didn't take offense at my frankness the other day—if I was too candid don't misinterpret it and my interest in you. Sometime I may explain it more intelligently, but for the present believe me to be, Your friend, CLYTIE PAYSON.

Granthope came out after she had concealed the note. He was fully dressed and almost unrecognizable in his costume. He walked gracefully, with the light-footed stride of a mandarin, and saluted her with mock gravity. Madam Spoll stared at him with her mouth open. For a moment she did not appear to know him. Then she chuckled.

"For the land's sakes, what are you up to now, Frank? Doing the Chinese doctor's stunt and selling powdered sea-horses?"

He laughed at her surprise. "No, I'm doing society," he explained.

"Do 'em good, then! Lord, you are a-butting in this time, ain't you! I wouldn't know you from a Sam Yup highbinder on a Chiny New Year in that rig! What is it, a fancy-dress ball at the Mechanics' Pavilion?"

"Worse than that," he laughed; "this is a private supper-party in costume and I am a guest."

"Lord, you are getting on, for fair! You ain't been conning them swell girls for nothing, have you? And, to be frank with you, I always thought you was after something very different. I was kind of afraid they'd spoil you, too. It's a good graft, Frank, and if I can do anything to give you a lift, just say the word."

"Thanks," he said dryly, taking a seat in front of her and pulling his long sleeves up to his wrist.

She kept her eyes upon him, as if fascinated by the gorgeousness of his costume, seemingly a little in fear of his elegant manners as well. Then she broke out, pettishly:

"Say, Fancy's getting pretty fresh, seems to me. She's a very different girl from what she was when she used to play spook for us. She was glad enough once to be polite—butter wouldn't melt in her mouth them days!"

"Oh, you mustn't mind Fancy; she's all right when you get used to her."

"She's pretty, if she is sassy," the medium acknowledged. "I can hardly blame you, Frank. I s'pose you find a good use for her. She seems to be pretty fond of you."

Granthope scowled. "Never mind about her. She's a great help to me here, and I like her—that's enough for you. You didn't come here to talk about Fancy Gray."

"I should think your ladies would object, though," the medium pursued. "It looks kind of funny, don't it? She stays here pretty late, it seems to me, if any one was to notice it. Some ladies don't like that sort of thing; they get jealous. Fancy's too pretty by half!"

"That'll be about all about Fancy Gray. Suppose we change the subject."

"Very good then; we'll change it to another girl that's as pretty. How would Miss Payson do to talk about?"

"What about her?"

"A whole lot about her. How are you getting along with her, for the first thing?"

Granthope smiled with an air of satisfaction, but contented himself with remarking, "Oh, I'm getting on all right. I can attend to my own end of the game, thank you. I've handled women before."

"More ways than one, eh?"

"She's not that kind. Don't you believe it!"

"Then what, for the Lord's sake, are you doing with her!" Madam Spoll gave her words a playful accent that he resented. Then she added, more seriously: "Frank, d'you know, I believe you could marry that girl. If you have changed yourself enough to like that kind, you might go farther and fare worse. She'd give you a good stand-in with the Western Addition, too. And we might help you out a bit; who knows! I can see all sorts of things in it, just as it stands."

"I haven't begun to think of anything like that," he replied carelessly.

"Of course not. I know well enough what you was thinking of. But you take my advice and don't spoil a big thing for a little one. Work her easy and you can land her. That's better a good sight than playing with her in your usual way."

He rose and walked to the window and looked out, vaguely annoyed. He turned, in a moment, to ask, "Has the old man made a will?"

"D'you mean to say you ain't found that out yet? Lord, Frank, you are getting slow. I don't know. I ain't come to that yet. But if he ain't, I'll see that he does make one, and that's where I can look out for your interests."

There was a slight sneer on his face. "Oh, don't trouble yourself. I've my own system, you know. I haven't made many breaks yet. It's likely that I can help you more than you can me. That reminds me; you might take these notes. It's about all I have got from the girl so far. They may come in handy."

He went to his desk, took a couple of cards from a tin box in the top drawer, and handed them to Madam Spoll. She looked them over interestedly.

"Much obliged. H'm! So she thinks she's a psychic, does she? They might be something in that. Supposed to be engaged to B. Cayley. Well, you'll have to fix him, won't you! Father writing a book—ah! That's just what we want. Say, that's great! Me and Vixley will work that book, don't you worry! Wears a ring with 'Clytie' inside. Turquoises. Mole on left cheek. Goes to Mercantile Library three to five. Sun-dial with doll buried under it. That's funny. I wish it was papers, or something important—I don't see what we could do with a doll, do you? Still, you never can tell. All's generally fish that comes to my net. I've known stranger things than dolls. Making a birthday present of a hand-bound volume of what? Montaigne? What's that? Say, what's this about Madam Grant, anyway?"

He turned to her and held out his hand for the card, now distinctly impatient. "I don't know—that is, I forgot I put that on. There's nothing there that will help you, I guess. You'd better let me have it back, after all. It's chiefly about Miss Payson, anyway, and that isn't your business."

Madam Spoll refused to return the card. Instead, she tucked it into the front of her dress, saying, "Oh, I don't know. You never know what may be useful. It's well to be prepared."

"See here; you understand that you're to keep your hands off Miss Payson," said Granthope with emphasis. "She's my game. Do what you like with the old man, but leave me alone, that's all!"

"Don't you fret yourself about that. Ain't we worked together before, for gracious sakes? I guess I can mind my own business!"

The palmist walked over to the fireplace, stood leaning against the mantel and kicked the fender meditatively, somewhat disturbed by Madam Spoll's presence. He had seen Miss Payson only twice, yet he had already come to the point where he was annoyed to hear her so cold-bloodedly discussed, and his own heartless notes quoted. Even less could he enjoy thinking of so fine and delicate a creature in the toils of Vixley and Spoll. No, she was for his own plucking. She was a quarry well worth his chase. To share his plans with such vulgar plotters seemed to cheapen the prize, to rub off the bloom of her beauty and charm. He would play a more exquisite, a more subtle game. It would not do, however, to break with the mediums. They were still useful to him, in spite of his assertion of independence. They knew, besides, altogether too much about him for him to dare to kindle their resentment.

If Madam Spoll had noticed his detachment she did not show it. She herself had, evidently, been thinking something over, and now she interrupted his meditation.

"Say, Frank, about that old Madam Grant, now—"

"She wasn't so old, was she?"

"How d'you know she wasn't?"

He covered his mistake as well as he could with: "Oh, I've heard she was a young woman, not more than thirty, when she died."

"Well, it's so far back, it seems as though she must have been old. You know I fished a little with what you give me about her and Payson; putting that together with what Lulu Ellis got, I believe I can work him. Funny you happened on that bit. Did the Payson girl tell you?"

"Oh, I got it—she let it out in a way. You know."

Madam Spoll chuckled. "Lord, they tell us more'n we ever tell them, don't they! But I was saying: I wish I could find out more about that little boy Madam Grant used to keep. I wonder was he her son, now?"

"I suppose you might find out something if you looked up the files of the Chronicle."

"That's a good idea. I'll do it. D'you know what year it was?"

"1877."

"How d'you know?"

He walked away from her carelessly, replying: "That's the idea I got of it. About that time."

"Frank," she said, "ain't you ever got any clue to who you are, yet? Never got any hint at all?"

"Never."

"Why don't you go to some real sure-enough psychic? They might help. I've known 'em to do wonderful things."

Granthope gazed at her and laughed loud. "You?" was all he could say.

She drew herself up. "Yes, me! Sure. Why, you don't think I consider they ain't no genuine ones, even if I do fake a little, do you?"

"You actually believe there's a medium alive that can tell such things?"

"I'm positive of it. Why, when I begun, I give some remarkable tests myself. I used to get names, sometimes. But there are straight ones. Not here, maybe, but in New York. You could send a lock of your hair."

He went up to her and clapped his hand on her shoulder, still laughing. "You're beautiful, my dear; you're positively beautiful!"

She turned a surprised face to him. "What in the world d'you mean?"

He shook his head and walked away. "Preserve your illusions! It's too wonderful. I'll be believing in palmistry, next I'll believe myself in love, after that. And then—I'll believe I'm honest, dignified, honorable, modest!" His tone grew, word by word, more hard and cynical. Then he turned to her with a whimsical expression: "So you believe your doll's alive!"

"I've no time to talk nonsense any longer!" she exclaimed, rising ponderously. "I can't make you out at all, Frank. Sometimes you're practical as insurance and sometimes you're half bug-house. Maybe it's them clothes!" She regarded him carefully.

He bowed to her with mock courtesy, spreading his fan.

"Lord, you do look like a fool in that Chink's rig. Have a good time with 'em—but keep your eyes and your ears open!"

She went out.

He was about to turn out the electric lights and leave, when he heard a knock at the door. He opened it, and saw the little freckled-face girl who had come to his office the day he had first met Clytie Payson. He recognized her instantly, but she, seeing him so extraordinarily disguised, drew back in surprise.

"Did you want Mr. Granthope?" he asked.

"Yes!" She finally made him out, but still gazed at him, somewhat frightened. Her face was bloodless.

"Come in," he said kindly. "I'm Granthope. You'll have to excuse this costume." He set a chair for her, but she stood, timidly regarding him.

"I'm awfully afraid I'm bothering you, Mr. Granthope, coming so late—I know I ought to have come in your office hours, but I couldn't possibly get off—and I did want to see you awfully! D'you suppose you could help me a little, now? I thought you might be able to, you said such wonderful things when I was here before, and I just can't stand it not to know, and I don't know what to do."

"Do sit down. Tell me what's the matter, my dear."

She crept into a chair, and sat with nervous hands, staring at him.

"Why, don't you remember?" She gazed at him in alarm. "Oh, I've depended so on what you said—it's all that kept me going!"

"Just pardon me a moment, please." He went to his desk drawer and began to fumble over his card catalogue. "I have a memorandum to make. Then I'll talk to you." He came to the card, and made a penciled note and glanced it over. Then he returned to her and sat down. "Now tell me all about it," he said gravely. "I remember perfectly, of course. Bill was in the Philippines, wasn't he? You hadn't heard from him for some time, and you were expecting him home on the next transport?"

She sat, limply huddled in her chair, gazing at him through her sad eyes.

"He did come back. I couldn't meet the boat. I missed him. And now he's gone!"

"He didn't let you know where he went?"

"Oh, Mr. Granthope, it's too awful! I can't bear it, but I could stand anything if I could only find him! You must find him for me."

"I'll do what I can, my dear. Your hand shows that it will all come out for the best. I wouldn't worry."

"Oh, but you don't know! You don't know how bad it is!" she moaned. "I thought you might know. He was wounded in a battle."

"But he came back?"

"Yes." Then she burst into a hurried torrent of words. "He didn't want me to know. He was shot in the face—his nose was shot off—it's awful—some of the men told me about it. Bill was ashamed to have me see him—he tried to make me think he wasn't in love with me any more, so I'd go away. But I knew better. Bill's so proud, Mr. Granthope, you don't know how proud he is! He'd rather leave me than make me suffer. But what do I care for his nose being gone? Why, Bill's a hero! He had more nerve than Hobson, anyway! Just because he was the only man in his company that dared to go through a swamp, under fire, to save his lieutenant—and he brought him in on his back, Bill did! Why, Bill's father was killed at Antietam, but Bill's luck was a heap worse than that! He has to live without a face and be despised and sneered at because he did his duty! Oh, if I can only find him, I'll give him something that will make him forget. Don't I love him all the more for it? He's tried to sacrifice his whole life and happiness only for me—just to save me from suffering when I look at him. D'you know many men who'd do that for a girl? I don't!"

She broke down and sobbed convulsively. The story seemed to Granthope like a scene from a play, and his inability to comfort her smote him while she fought to restrain her tears.

"And you can't find out where he is?"

"No. The company was mustered out, and Bill just naturally disappeared. Nobody knows where he is. I've asked all his officers, and all the men I could find."

He took her hand and looked at it soberly for a moment.

"It will all come out right, my dear. You trust me. There's your line of fate as clean as a string. I see trouble in it, but only for a little while. You'll be married, too. You must have patience and wait, that's all. Suppose you come back and see me in a week or so, and tell me if you've heard any news of him. Meanwhile, I'll see what I can find out myself. There's a cross in your hand—that's a good sign. Bill still loves you, and he won't let you suffer long."

He felt the pitiful emptiness of his words, but he had been too affected by her narrative to give her the smooth banalities that were always ready to his tongue. She got up and looked at him through her tears.

"You have helped me, Mr. Granthope. Somehow I knew you could. I'll be in again sometime. How much is it, please?"

"My dear girl, when you come again, you can thank the young lady whom you saw here before. Don't thank me."

She looked at him silently, then she took his hand and shook it very hard. "You mean that lady with red hair who sits at the desk?"

"Yes."

"I liked her when I saw her. She was nice to me. Is—is she Mrs. Granthope?"

Granthope shook his head and smiled.

The girl blushed at her indiscretion. "I kind of thought—she seemed to be, well, fond of you. I mean, the way she looked at you, I didn't know but what you were married. I hope you'll excuse me." She was visibly confused, and evidently had said much more than she had intended.

"My dear," Granthope replied, "she's far too good for me!"

The girl shook her head slowly, as she rose to go. A smile struggled to her face as if, for the first time, she noted the incongruity of the palmist's costume, then, with a grateful look she went out.