ou in a cab and on Sunday----"

Cassy gave him a little unsugared look. "You take a great deal for
granted."

Behind the girl's back the Tamburini gave him another look. Cheerful and
evil and plainer than words it said: "Leave it to me."

Cassy, her perfect nose in the air, announced that she must get her
things.

Through the emptying restaurant Paliser saw them to the entrance. There,
as he waited, the captain hurried to him.

"Everything satisfactory, sir?"

"I want a private dining-room on Sunday."

"Yes, sir. For how many?"

"Two."

"Sorry, sir. It's against the rules."

Paliser surveyed him. "Whom does this hotel belong to? You?"

The captain smiled and caressed his chin. "No, sir, the hotel does not
belong to me. It is owned by Mr. Paliser."

"Thank you. So I thought. I am Mr. Paliser. A private dining-room on
Sunday for two."

But now Cassy and the Tamburini, hatted and cloaked, were returning. The
chastened waiter moved aside. Through the still crowded halls, Paliser
accompanied them to the street where, a doorkeeper assiduously
assisting, he got them into a taxi, asked the addresses, paid the
mechanician, saw them off.

Manfully, as the cab veered, the Tamburini swore.

"You damn fool, that man is rich as all outdoors."

IV

The house in which Cassy lived was what is agreeably known as a walk-up.
There was no lift, merely the stairs, flight after flight, which
constituted the walk-up, one that ascended to the roof, where you had a
fine view of your neighbours' laundry. Such things are not for
everybody. Cassy hated them.

On this night when the taxi, after reaching Harlem, landed her there
and, the walk-up achieved, she let herself into a flat on the fifth
floor, a "You're late!" filtered out at her.

It was her father, who, other things being equal, you might have
mistaken for Zuloaga's "Uncle." The lank hair, the sad eyes, the wan
face, the dressing-gown, there he sat. Only the palette was absent.
Instead was an arm in a sling. There was another difference. Beyond, in
lieu of capricious manolas, was a piano and, above it, a portrait with
which Zuloaga had nothing to do. The portrait represented a man who
looked very fierce and who displayed a costume rich and unusual. Beneath
the portrait was a violin. Beside the piano was a sword-cane. Otherwise,
barring a rose-wood table, the room contained nothing to boast of.

"You're late," he repeated.

His name was Angelo Cara. When