waiting for the elevator, Curtis fathomed Marcelle's
stock of information as to the addresses of neighboring ministers of
the Protestant Episcopal Church. It was nil. He appealed to the
attendant when the elevator came up, but that worthy thoughtfully
tickled his scalp under his cap, and suggested a consultation with the
taxi-driver. Indeed, to further the quest, he went with them to the
door, and, while Lady Hermione and Marcelle seated themselves in the
cab, the three men discussed the religious problem on the sidewalk.

"Ministers don't use taxis much in N' York, sir," commented the driver.
"Fact is, they mostly can't afford 'em, but I do happen to know where
one old gentleman lives, an' he's sure to be home, because he's
crippled something cruel with the rheumatiz."

"Is it far?" demanded Curtis.

"Three blocks away, in 56th Street, near Seventh Avenue. Lives next
door to the church, he does."

"Take us there," and Curtis entered the vehicle, which whirled out of
sight in the peculiarly downright fashion of the automobile.

The elevator man looked after it, and tickled another section of his
scalp.

"I'd a notion she was going to marry that Frenchman," he said to
himself. "Of course, it's her business, an' not mine, but of the two
I'd take a chance with this new fellar. An' it's odd, too, that they
shouldn't know where to go, unless they mean to pick up Froggy on the
road. Well, wimmen is queer creetures, they are, sure, an' the English
ones are just as queer as the Americans. Not that Miss Grandison ain't
a peach wherever she comes from, an' I hope she'll be happy, night an'
day till the time comes when she don't care if it snows."

He glanced up at the sky, rolled a cigarette, and, before returning
indoors, sniffed a keen wind which was rustling the last crisp leaves
in Central Park. The street was quiet, and no one was stirring in the
mansion.

"I'm not likely to be wanted for another minnit or two," he said, "so
I'll just give the furnace a shake-out. Unless I'm mistaken, there's a
frost coming."

Had he prophesied a hurricane he would not have been far wrong, but it
was entirely in keeping with the other remarkable developments of a
night already noteworthy for its strange happenings that the elevator
attendant at No. 1000 59th Street should have chosen the next few
minutes to attend to the steam-heating arrangements in the basement.

There is little to be gained, however, from speculatio