ssible!

His disturbed thoughts reverted to the terms of the bargain, the entire
enterprise, the figures on his check. His own amazing imbecility
appalled him. What idiocy! What sudden madness had seized him to
entangle himself in such unheard-of negotiations! True, he had played
bridge until dawn the night before, but, on awaking, he had discovered
no perceptible hold-over. It must have been sheer weakness of intellect
that permitted him to be dominated by the suggestions of Kerns. And now
the game was on: the jack declared, cards dealt, and his ante was up.
Had he openers?

Room 19, duly labeled with its number on the opaque glass door,
contained a desk, a table and typewriter, several comfortable chairs,
and a window opening on Fifth Avenue, through which the eastern sun
poured a stream of glory, washing curtain, walls, and ceiling with
palest gold.

And all this time, preoccupied with new impressions and his own growing
chagrin, he watched the girl who conducted him with all the unconscious
assurance and grace of a young chatelaine passing through her own domain
under escort of a distinguished guest.

When they had entered Room 19, she half turned, but he forestalled her
and closed the door, and she passed before him with a perceptible
inclination of her finely modeled head, seating herself at the desk by
the open window. He took an armchair at her elbow and removed his
gloves, looking at her expectantly.

CHAPTER III

"This is a list of particular and general questions for you to answer,
Mr. Gatewood," she said, handing him a long slip of printed matter. "The
replies to such questions as you are able or willing to answer you may
dictate to me." The beauty of her modulated voice was scarcely a
surprise--no woman who moved and carried herself as did this tall young
girl in black and white could reasonably be expected to speak with less
distinction--yet the charm of her voice, from the moment her lips
unclosed, so engrossed him that the purport of her speech escaped him.

"Would you mind saying it once more?" he asked.

She did so; he attempted to concentrate his attention, and succeeded
sufficiently to look as though some vestige of intellect remained in
him. He saw her pick up a pad and pencil; the contour and grace of two
deliciously fashioned hands arrested his mental process once more.

"I _beg_ your pardon," he said hastily; "what were you saying, Miss
Southerland?"

"Nothing, Mr. Gatewood.