havior when he had found
them had always made a strong appeal to Cleggett. If he could not have
been Cleggett he would have liked to have been either the Chevalier
d'Artagnan or Theodore Roosevelt.

"He is a great man," said Cleggett.

But the lady, with her second cup of tea in her hand, was evidently
thinking of something else. Leaning back in her chair, she said to
Cleggett:

"It is no good for you to deny that you think I'm a horridly
unconventional sort of person!"

Cleggett made a polite, deprecatory gesture.

"Yes, yes, you do," she said, decidedly. "And, really, I am! I am
impulsive! I am TOO impulsive!" She raised the cup to her lips,
drank, and looked off towards the western horizon, which the sun was
beginning to paint ruddily; she mused, murmuring as if to herself:
"Sir Archibald always thought I was too impulsive, dear man."

After a meditative pause she said, leaning her elbows on the table and
gazing searchingly into Cleggett's eyes:

"I am going to trust you. I am going to reward your kindness by
telling you a portion of my strange story. I am going to depend upon
you to understand it."

Cleggett bowed and murmured his gratitude at the compliment. Then he
said:

"You could trust me with------" But he stopped. He did not wish to be
premature.

"With my life. I could trust you with my life," finished the lady,
gravely. "I know that. I believe that. I feel it, somehow. It is
because I do feel it that I tell you----" She paused, as if, after
all, she lacked the courage. Cleggett said nothing. He was too fine in
grain to force a confidence. After a moment she continued: "I can tell
you this," she said, with a catch in her voice that was almost a sob,
"that I am practically friendless. When you call a taxicab for me in a
few moments, and I leave you, with Elmer and my boxes, I shall have no
place to go."

"But, surely, madam----"

"Do not call me madam. Call me Lady Agatha. I am Lady Agatha
Fairhaven. What is your name?"

Cleggett told her.

"You have heard of me?" asked Lady Agatha.

Cleggett was obliged to confess that he had not. He thought that a
shade of disappointment passed over the lady's face, but in a moment
she smiled and remarked:

"How relative a thing is fame! You have never heard of me! And yet I
can assure you that I am well enough known in England. I was one of
the very first militant suffragettes to break a window--if not the very
first. The point