y stern commands, had indulged her passionate longing for
putting things in order. A quarter of an hour's arduous searching,
however, revealed the journal I sought. The door had been left open, and
I walked right in.

"Good morning," I said. "I have seen Gordon this morning and he will be
pleased to employ you again, Frances, and--and I have a paper here. It
is yesterday's, and I found something that may perhaps interest you,
and--and----"

But she had risen quickly and took the paper from me, her voice
trembling a little.

"Where--what is it?" she asked eagerly.

It took me a minute to find that column again. When I pointed out the
notice, she took the sheet from me, staring at it as if doubting her
eyes.

"Yes--it is for Madame Paul Dupont. I--I must go there at once! Oh!
Frieda dear, will you mind little Paul for me while I am gone? I will go
and return just as quick as I can and won't keep you very long."

"I will do anything you want me to, Frances, but you are not very
familiar with downtown streets. I had better accompany you there. We can
take little Paul with us."

"I had intended to offer my services as a guide," I put in.

Frances had sunk in her chair and was still looking at the paper, as if,
between the lines, she might have been able to find more than the mere
mention of her name.

"You must let me go, Dave," whispered Frieda to me. "She--she might
faint, poor thing, or feel very badly, and--and a woman is better at
such times. I will try to make her wait until we get back, before she
opens the thing, and you can be here when we return."

Man, that is born of woman, is commonly her humble slave. I could do
nothing but bow to my stout friend's will and retired to my room to
leave their preparations unhampered by my presence. When I propose a
dinner or the moving pictures, they always hurry as fast as they can and
are usually ready in fifteen or twenty minutes. On this occasion, about
ninety seconds seemed to suffice.

"Good-by, Dave," they called out to me, waving their hands and
disappearing down the stairs.

I had any number of important things to do. A fine disorder, said
Boileau, is an effect of art. It behooved me to disturb the beautifully
orderly and thoroughly deplorable piling up of my books indulged in by
Mrs. Milliken. Also, there were separate loose sheets of virginal paper
to be separated from those bearing my written vagaries, for she had
played havoc with them. Moreover, I