iness. Suddenly he drew in the focus
of his glasses. A face had come within the rim of his observation--the
face of a man sitting in the row in front of him. That man, too, had his
glasses turned toward the group on the other side of the diamond
horseshoe, and the look on his face was not pleasant to see. A lean,
triumphant smile curled his heavy purple lips, the radiating wrinkles at
the corner of his eyes were drawn upward in a Mephistophelian hardness.

It was Victor Mahr. His expression suddenly changed to one of intense
disgust, as a tall young man entered the Denning box and bent in evident
admiration over Dorothy's smiling face. Victor Mahr rose from his seat,
and with a curt nod to Gard, who feigned interest elsewhere, disappeared
into the corridor.

* * * * *

III

Mrs. Marteen stood at her desk, a mammoth affair of Jacobean type,
holding in her hand a sheet of crested paper, scrawled over in a large,
tempestuous hand.

MY DEAR MRS. MARTEEN:

If you will be so good as to drop in at the library at
five, it will give me great pleasure to go over with you
the details of my stewardship. The commission with
which you honored me has, I think, been well directed
to an excellent result. Moreover, a little chat with you
will be, as always, a real pleasure to--

Yours in all admiration,

J. MARCUS GARD.

P.S.--I suggest your coming here, as the details of
business are best transacted in the quiet of a business
office,
and I therefore crave your presence and indulgence.--

J.M.G.

Mrs. Marteen was dressing for the street; her hands were gloved, her
sable muff swung from a gem-studded chain, her veil was nicely adjusted;
yet she hesitated, her eyes upon a busy silver clock that already marked
the appointed hour. The room was large, wainscoted in dark paneling; a
capacious fireplace jutted far out, and was made further conspicuous by
two settees of worm-eaten oak. The chairs that backed along the walls
were of stalwart pattern. A collection of English silver tankards was
the chief decoration, save straight hangings of Cordova leather at the
windows, and a Spanish embroidery, tarnished with age, that swung beside
the door. Hardly a woman's room, and yet feminine in its minor touches;
the gallooned red velvet cushions of the Venetian armchair; the violets
that from every available place shed their