flirtation, why--anyway, watch 'em this evening. The day watch listened
in and says they've made some date for to-night."

He was off down the hall again with his light, quick step that still had
the appearance of leisureliness.

The telephone at Sadie's right buzzed warningly. Sadie picked up the
receiver and plunged into the busiest half hour of the evening. From
that moment until seven o'clock her nimble fingers and eyes and brain
and tongue directed the steps of her little world. She held the
telephone receiver at one ear and listened to the demands of incoming
and outgoing guests with the other. She jotted down reports, dealt out
mail and room-keys, kept her neuralgic eye on stairs and elevators and
halls, her sound orb on tube and pantry signals, while through and
between and above all she guided the stream of humanity that trickled
past her desk--bellhops, Polish chambermaids, messenger boys, guests,
waiters, parlour maids.

Just before seven there disembarked at floor two out of the
cream-and-gold elevator one of those visions that have helped to make
Fifth Avenue a street of the worst-dressed women in the world. The
vision was Two-eighteen, and her clothes were of the kind that prepared
you for the shock that you got when you looked at her face. Plume met
fur, and fur met silk, and silk met lace, and lace met gold--and the
whole met and ran into a riot of colour, and perfume--and little
jangling, swishing sounds. Just by glancing at Two-eighteen's feet in
their inadequate openwork silk and soft kid you knew that Two-eighteen's
lips would be carmined.

She came down the corridor and stopped at Sadie Corn's desk. Sadie Corn
had her key ready for her. Two-eighteen took it daintily between
white-gloved fingers.

"I'll want a maid in fifteen minutes," she said. "Tell them to send me
the one I had yesterday. The pretty one. She isn't so clumsy as some."

Sadie Corn jotted down a note without looking up.

"Oh, Julia? Sorry--Julia's busy," she lied.

Two-eighteen knew she lied, because at that moment there came round the
bend in the broad, marble stairway that led up from the parlour floor
the trim, slim figure of Julia herself.

Two-eighteen took a quick step forward. "Here, girl! I'll want you to
hook me in fifteen minutes," she said.

"Very well, ma'am," replied Julia softly.

There passed between Sadie Corn and Two-eighteen a--well, you could
hardly call it a look, it was so fleeting, so ephemeral; th