octor told me I had a false alarm, there was nothing
to it. Wouldn't that jar you? Boston's a slow burg, and there's no use
of my staying here now. I'm going to New York, and maybe I'll come back
when I've had a look at the great white way. I've got the coin, and I
gave him the mit to-night. If you haven't anything better to do, drop in
at the Bagatelle and give Walters my love, and tell them not to worry at
home. There's no use trying to trail me. Your affectionate sister Lise."

Janet thrust the letter in her pocket. Then she walked rapidly westward
until she came to the liver-coloured facade of the City Hall, opposite
the Common. Pushing through the crowd of operatives lingering on the
pavement in front of it, she entered the building....

CHAPTER XV

Occasionally the art of narrative may be improved by borrowing the
method of the movies. Another night has passed, and we are called upon
to imagine the watery sunlight of a mild winter afternoon filtering
through bare trees on the heads of a multitude. A large portion of
Hampton Common is black with the people of sixteen nationalities who
have gathered there, trampling down the snow, to listen wistfully and
eagerly to a new doctrine of salvation. In the centre of this throng on
the bandstand--reminiscent of concerts on sultry, summer nights--are the
itinerant apostles of the cult called Syndicalism, exhorting by turns
in divers tongues. Antonelli had spoken, and many others, when Janet,
impelled by a craving not to be denied, had managed to push her way
little by little from the outskirts of the crowd until now she stood
almost beneath the orator who poured forth passionate words in a
language she recognized as Italian. Her curiosity was aroused, she
was unable to classify this tall man whose long and narrow face was
accentuated by a pointed brown beard, whose lips gleamed red as he
spoke, whose slim hands were eloquent. The artist as propagandist--the
unsuccessful artist with more facility than will. The nose was classic,
and wanted strength; the restless eyes that at times seemed fixed on her
were smouldering windows of a burning house: the fire that stirred her
was also consuming him. Though he could have been little more than five
and thirty, his hair was thinned and greying at the temples. And
somehow emblematic of this physiognomy and physique, summing it up and
expressing it in terms of apparel, were the soft collar and black scarf
tied in a flowing bow.