and the next day, to any one who cared to listen,
including the second-class reporters who go to underlings for
information; Margaret's name was already coupled with that of a
millionaire who was supposed to protect her. Ten days ago, she had been
unassailable, a 'lady'--Lushington did not particularly like the
word--a young English girl of honourable birth, protected by no less a
personage than Mrs. Rushmore, and defended from calumny by that very
powerful organisation for mutual defence under all circumstances, which
calls itself society, which wields most of the capital of the world,
rewards its humble friends with its patronage and generally kills or
ruins its enemies. That was ten days ago. Now, the 'lady' had become an
'artist,' and was public property. The stage doorkeeper of a theatre
could smilingly suggest that she was the property of a financier, and
no one had a right to hit him between the eyes for saying so.
Lushington had been strongly tempted to do that, but he had instantly
foreseen the consequences; he would have been arrested for an
unprovoked assault, the man would have told his story, the papers would
have repeated it with lively comments, and Margaret's name would have
been dragged through the mud of a newspaper scandal. So Lushington put
his hands in his pockets and went away, which was by far the wisest
thing he could do.

He set himself resolutely to think out a plan of action, but like many
men of tolerably fertile imagination he was at a loss for any expedient
in the presence of urgent need. He could watch Logotheti and Margaret,
and they would not easily recognise him, but he was fain to admit that
he had nothing to gain by spying on them. He had seen enough and heard
enough already to convince him that Margaret had allowed herself to be
led into a situation very dangerous for her good name, to say the
least. It did not occur to him that Logotheti wished to marry her,
still less that he meant to hinder her from singing in public. He could
not help thinking of the very worst motives, and he attributed them all
to the Greek.

The mild English man of letters was momentarily turned into an avenging
demon, breathing wrath and destruction upon his adversary. The most
extravagant and reckless crimes looked comparatively easy just then,
and very tempting. He thought of getting into Logotheti's cellar with
enough dynamite to blow the house, its owner and himself to atoms, not
to speak of half the Bo