d yellow hair, she looked now
just as she had looked an indefinite number of years ago. Her age--none
knew it, save herself and perhaps one other, and none cared. The
gracious and alluring contours of her figure were irreproachable; and
in the evenings she was a useful ornament of which any hotel might be
innocently proud. Her knowledge of Bradshaw, of steamship services, and
the programmes of theatres and music-halls was unrivalled; yet she never
travelled, she never went to a theatre or a music-hall. She seemed to
spend the whole of her life in that official lair of hers, imparting
information to guests, telephoning to the various departments, or
engaged in intimate conversations with her special friends on the staff,
as at present.

'Who's Number 107?' Jules asked this black-robed lady.

Miss Spencer examined her ledgers.

'Mr Theodore Racksole, New York.'

'I thought he must be a New Yorker,' said Jules, after a brief,
significant pause, 'but he talks as good English as you or me. Says he
wants an "Angel Kiss"--maraschino and cream, if you please--every night.
I'll see he doesn't stop here too long.'

Miss Spencer smiled grimly in response. The notion of referring to
Theodore Racksole as a 'New Yorker' appealed to her sense of humour, a
sense in which she was not entirely deficient. She knew, of course, and
she knew that Jules knew, that this Theodore Racksole must be the unique
and only Theodore Racksole, the third richest man in the United States,
and therefore probably in the world. Nevertheless she ranged herself at
once on the side of Jules.

Just as there was only one Racksole, so there was only one Jules,
and Miss Spencer instinctively shared the latter's indignation at the
spectacle of any person whatsoever, millionaire or Emperor, presuming to
demand an 'Angel Kiss', that unrespectable concoction of maraschino and
cream, within the precincts of the Grand Babylon. In the world of hotels
it was currently stated that, next to the proprietor, there were three
gods at the Grand Babylon--Jules, the head waiter, Miss Spencer, and,
most powerful of all, Rocco, the renowned chef, who earned two thousand
a year, and had a chalet on the Lake of Lucerne. All the great hotels
in Northumberland Avenue and on the Thames Embankment had tried to get
Rocco away from the Grand Babylon, but without success. Rocco was well
aware that even he could rise no higher than the maitre hotel of the
Grand Babylon, which, though i