e murder in 27th Street as
something out of the ordinary. But its methods were new to the man
whose adult years had been passed far from his native city, and he was
astounded now to find how the descriptive reporter, aided by the
photographer, had depicted and dissected nearly every feature of the
crime. On one point the press was silent--as yet. There was no
mention of Lady Hermione, and, with a reticence which spoke volumes for
the close relations existing between police and reporters, the Earl of
Valletort and Count Vassilan were represented as merely "enquiring for"
John Delancy Curtis, "the man from Pekin."

Curtis had spread the newspapers on the table, and, when a tap on the
door of the sitting-room seemed to indicate the re-appearance of the
waiter, he swept them up in a heap, meaning to go through them at
leisure after breakfast.

"Come in," he said, turning casually.

The door opened, and Hermione entered.

It was what dramatists term "a psychological moment," and, according to
Berkeley, one of the axioms of psychology is that it never transcends
the limits of the individual. Most certainly, at that moment, the
truth of this dictum was demonstrated in a manner which would have
surprised even the doughty philosopher himself.

Curtis saw nothing, knew nothing, thought of nothing not strictly
bounded by the fact that Hermione, and none other, stood there. He
gazed at her spell-bound for a second or two. He neither moved nor
spoke, but remained stock-still, with the newspapers gathered in his
hands, while his eyes blazed into hers without any pretense of
restraint.

She was rosy red, partly because of the wine-like morning air through
which she had walked swiftly, but more, perhaps, because of a very real
embarrassment and contriteness of spirit.

"I came," she faltered--"I am here--that is--will you ever forgive
me!----"

Down went the papers, and round Hermione went Curtis's strong arms. He
was a man of thew and sinew, against whom a slender girl's strength
might not hope to prevail. The last thing she looked for was to be
embraced at sight. It is the last thing any woman expects, and the one
thing to which she is most apt to yield. And really, despite her
fluttered cry of protest, there was something very comforting and
dependable about that masculine hug. Hermione had never before been
clasped in a man's arms. She was a highly kissable person, and women
would embrace her readily, but the