mp, elderly,
little lady stepped stiffly from the coupe. "These London fogs are
dangerous."

The boy stood staring at her, his feet as helpless as if they had taken
root to the ground. Suddenly he remembered his mission. His native
impudence reasserted itself, and he started forward.

"Paper, sir?"

He addressed the man. For a moment it seemed as though he were to be
rebuffed, then something in the boy's attitude changed his mind.

As the man fumbled in an inner pocket for change, the lad took a swift
inventory. The face beneath the tall hat was a powerful oval,
paste-coloured, with thin lips, and heavy lines from nostril to jaw.
The eyes were close set and of a turbid grey.

"It's him," the boy assured himself, and opened his mouth to speak.

The girl laughed amusedly at the spectacle of her companion's passion
for news in this grimy atmosphere, and turned to the young man in
evening dress who had just dismissed his taxi and joined the group.

It was the diversion the boy had prayed for. He took a quick step toward
the older man.

"T. B. S.," he said, in a soft but distinct undertone.

The man's face blanched suddenly, and a coin which he held in his large,
white-gloved palm slipped jingling to the pavement.

The young messenger stooped and caught it dexterously.

"T. B. S.," he whispered again, insistently.

"Here?" the answer came hoarsely. The man's lips trembled.

"Watchin' this theatre--splits[1] by the million," finished the boy
promptly, and with satisfaction. Under cover of returning the coin, he
thrust a slip of white paper into the other's hand.

[Footnote 1: Splits: detectives.]

Then he wheeled, ducked to the girl with a gay little swagger of
impudence, threw a lightning glance of scrutiny at her young escort, and
turning, was lost in the throng.

The whole incident occupied less than a minute, and presently the four
were seated in their box, and the gay strains from the overture of _The
Strand Girl_ came floating up to them.

"I wish I were a little street gamin in London," said the girl
pensively, fingering the violets at her corsage. "Think of the
adventures! Don't you, Frank?"

Frank Doughton looked across at her with smiling significant eyes, which
brought a flush to her cheeks.

"No," he said softly, "I do not!"

The girl laughed at him and shrugged her round white shoulders.

"For a young journalist, Frank, you are too obvious--too delightfully
verdant. You should study ind