a dark, lantern-jawed man, with keen eyes and a hard
mouth, who was dining by himself. The latter glanced at them and
nodded.

"Thank you, Charles," he said, "I've had my eye on them. The girl's a
pauper, daughter of that old fool Grimes, the actor. Does a little
typewriting--precious little, I should think, from the look of her. The
man's interesting. Don't talk about them. Understand?"

The maitre d'hotel bowed.

"I understand, Inspector. Not much any one can tell you, sir."

"Pays his bill in American money, I suppose?" the diner asked.

"I'll ascertain for you, Mr. Dane," Charles replied. "I believe he is an
Englishman."

"Name of Merton Ware," the inspector agreed, nodding, "just arrived from
Jamaica. Writes some sort of stuff which the girl with him typewrites.
That's his story. He's probably as harmless as a baby."

Charles bowed and moved away. His smile was inscrutable.

CHAPTER V

New York became a changed city to Philip. Its roar and its turmoil, its
babel of tongues speaking to him always in some alien language, were
suddenly hushed! He was no longer conscious of the hard unconcern of a
million faces, of the crude buildings in the streets, the cutting winds,
the curious, depressing sense of being on a desert island, the hermit
clutching at the sleeves of imaginary multitudes. A few minutes' journey
in a cable car which seemed to crawl, a few minutes' swift walking along
the broad thoroughfare of Fifth Avenue, where his feet seemed to fall
upon the air and the passersby seemed to smile upon him like real human
beings, and he was in her room. It was only an hotel sitting room, after
all, but eloquent of her, a sitting room filled with great bowls of
roses, with comfortable easy-chairs, furniture of rose-coloured satin,
white walls, and an English fire upon the grate. Elizabeth was in New
York, and the world moved differently.

She came out to him from an inner room almost at once. His eyes swept
over her feverishly. He almost held his breath. Then he gave a great sigh
of satisfaction. She came with her hands outstretched, a welcoming smile
upon her lips. She was just as he had expected to find her. There was
nothing in her manner to indicate that they had not parted yesterday.

"Welcome to New York, my dramatist!" she exclaimed. "I am here, you see,
to the day, almost to the hour."

He stood there, holding her hands. His eyes seemed to be devouring her.

"Go on talking to me," he begged. "L