he two ladies in low, bantering, familiar terms--"Mr.
Smith," "Mrs. Jones," "Mr. White" and "Mrs. Brown."

"You got my card!" asked one of the men of the woman nearest Constance.
"Sorry we're late, but a business friend ran into us as we were coming
in and I had to shunt him off in the other direction."

He nodded toward the opposite end of the corridor with a laugh.

"You've been bad boys," pouted the other woman, "but we forgive
you--this time."

"Perhaps we may hope to be reinstated after a little--er--tea--and a
dance?" suggested the other man.

The four were all moving in the direction of the dining-room and the
gay music.

They had disappeared in the crush about the door before Constance
noticed that the woman who had been sitting nearest her had dropped an
envelope. She picked it up. It was on the stationery of another
fashionable hotel, evidently written by one of those who lounge in, and
on the strength of a small bill in the cafe use the writing room. In a
man's hand was the name, "Mrs. Anita Douglas, The Melcombe Apartments,
City"

Before she realized it, Constance had pulled out the card inside and
glanced at it. It read:

MY DEAREST A----:

Can you meet us in the Vanderveer to-morrow afternoon at four?
Bring along your little friend.

With many * * * *

Yours,

?????

Mechanically Constance crumpled the card and the envelope in her hand
and held them as she regarded the passing throng, intending to throw
them away when she passed a scrap basket on the way out.

Still, it was a fascinating scene, this of the comedy and tragedy of
human weaknesses, and she stayed much longer than she had intended. One
by one the people had either gone to dinner in the main dining-room or
elsewhere and Constance had nearly decided on going, too.

She was looking down the corridor toward the desk when she saw
something that caused her to change her mind. There was the young lady
who had been talking so flippantly to the woman with a grievance, and
she was now talking, of all people, to Drummond!

Constance shrank back into her wicker chair in the protecting angle.
What did it mean? If Drummond had anything to do with it, even
remotely, it boded no good, at least.

Suddenly a possible explanation crossed her mind. Was it a side-light
upon that peculiar industry of divorce as practiced in no place except
New York?

It was not only that Constance longed for, lived by excitemen