he Red Cross and the
canteen that afternoon.

Undressed, she sent her maid for a cup of tea, feeling too tired for
luncheon. Afterward she lay down on her bed, meaning merely to close
her eyes for a moment.

It was after four in the afternoon when she sat up with a start--too
late for the Red Cross; but she could do something at the canteen.

She went about dressing as though bruised. It seemed to take an
interminable time. Her maid called a taxi; but the short winter
daylight had nearly gone when she arrived at the canteen.

She remained there on kitchen duty until seven, then untied her white
tablier, washed, pinned on her hat, and went out into the light-shot
darkness of the streets and turned her steps once more toward home.

There is, among the weirder newspapers of the metropolis, a sheet
affectionately known as "pink-and-punk," the circulation of which
seems to depend upon its distribution of fake "extras."

As Palla turned into her street, shabby men with hoarse voices were
calling an extra and selling the newspaper in question.

She bought one, glanced at the headlines, then, folding it, unlocked
her door.

Dinner was announced almost immediately, but she could not touch it.

She sank down on the sofa, still wearing her furs and hat. After a
little while she opened her newspaper.

It seemed that a Bolsheviki plot had been discovered to murder the
premiers and rulers of the allied nations, and to begin simultaneously
in every capital and principal city of Europe and America a reign of
murder and destruction.

In fact, according to the account printed in startling type, the
Terrorists had already begun their destructive programme in
Philadelphia. Half a dozen buildings--private dwellings and one small
hotel--had been more or less damaged by bombs. A New York man named
Wilding, fairly well known as an impresario, had been killed outright;
and a Russian pianist, Vanya Tchernov, who had just arrived in
Philadelphia to complete arrangements for a concert to be given by him
under Mr. Wilding's management, had been fatally injured by the
collapse of the hotel office which, at that moment, he was leaving in
company with Mr. Wilding.

A numbness settled over Palla's brain. She did not seem to be able
to comprehend that this affair concerned Vanya--that this newspaper
was telling her that Vanya had been fatally hurt somewhere in
Philadelphia.

Hours later, while she was lying on the lounge with her face b