the sound.

"Bless me!" she ejaculated. Then, addressing herself to the girl: "How
fine the shops and the opera houses must be there!"

"I've not been there in some years," she answered coolly. "I am from
Ontario."

"Well, I declare!" cried Mrs. Pink. "Quite a romance! Where did you
meet?"

"Here," said Garth readily. There was no turning back now.

"What a nice man!" now thought this perverse young lady.

"Well! Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Pink with immense interest. "Ain't that odd
now! Was it long since?"

"Not so very," said Garth vaguely. He glanced across the table and saw
that his supposed wife had finished her lunch. His heart sank heavily.

"Three months?" hazarded Mrs. Pink.

"It was about half an hour ago," came brisk and clear from across the
table.

Mrs. Pink looked up in utter amazement; her jaw dropped; and a piece
of bread was arrested halfway to her mouth. The girl had risen and was
drawing on her gloves.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Pink," she said sweetly. "I hope you find your husband
sooner than I find mine!"

With that she passed out; and the swing door closed behind her. All the
light went with her, it seemed to Garth, and the cabin became a sordid,
spotty little hole. Mrs. Pink stared at the door through which she had
disappeared, in speechless bewilderment. Finally she turned to Garth.

"Wh-what did she mean?" she stammered.

"I do not know the young lady," said Garth sadly.

"Good land, man!" screamed Mrs. Pink. "Why didn't you say so at first?"

II

THE UNKNOWN LADY

Garth Pevensey was a reporter on the _New York Leader_. His choice of
an occupation had been made more at the dictate of circumstances than
of his free will; and in the round hole of modern journalism he was
something of a square and stubborn peg. He had become a reporter because
he had no taste for business; and a newspaper office is the natural
refuge for clever young men with a modicum of education, and the need
of providing an income. He was not considered a "star" on the force;
and his city editor had been known to tear his hair at the missed
opportunities in Pevensey's copy, and hand it to one of the more glowing
stylists for the injection of "ginger." But Garth had his revenge in the
result; the gingerized phrases in his quiet narrative cried aloud, like
modern gingerbread work on a goodly old dwelling.

It was agreed in the office that Pevensey was too quiet ever to make a
crack reporter. On a big story full