d from Clo's heart. It was more ornamental than practical, but it
would be immensely useful to her. If she had been given her choice of
cloaks, she couldn't have done better. Seventeen was bringing her luck.

"Oh, I believe I'd better leave my hat!" she said to the attendant, as
if on a second thought. Unsuspiciously the woman took it, pinned a bit
of paper to the lining, and handed the duplicate to Clo. "Nobody's got
seventeen now, so I'll give it to you again." This seemed a good omen:
seventeen for the second time! With the cloak over her arm she sauntered
out of the room. Then back she went to the foot of the stairs, where was
a quiet niche behind a big, potted palm, and close by was one of those
convenient panel mirrors. Thus refuged, Clo slipped into the wrap, and
arranged the floppy hood. It was far from becoming, for the frill fell
almost to her eyes; but it hid the tell-tale red hair, and showed little
of her face save the end of an impudent nose and the tip of a pointed
chin. The cloak, made for a taller figure than Clo's, came nearly to her
feet, and holding it together the white dress became invisible.

"Now for it!" she thought, like a soldier who goes "over the top" to
charge the enemy. Head down, hood flapping, cloak floating, she sailed
along the corridor and out into the gallery beyond. Yes, there was the
marble staircase, and below was the great, bright hall; but in this
disguise she could pass O'Reilly if he had assembled half the detectives
in New York. So she tripped down the stairs, sedate, unhurried as the
care-free girl whose cloak she had borrowed. Arrived in the hall, she
knew her way out, and could hardly subdue the triumph in her voice as
she said "Taxi, please," to an attendant porter.

"Where shall I tell him to go, miss?" came the question as she stepped
into the cab; and for half a second she hesitated. By a clock she had
seen in the hall it was just half-past eight. There would be time to go
home, time for Angel to open the envelope and see if the contents were
right, time to tell Angel her own adventures, and time to rest before
keeping her tryst with Peterson.

She gave the number of the house in Park Avenue where Roger Sands lived.
The door of the taxi shut with a reassuring "click." It was heavenly to
lean back against the comfortable cushions! She ought to be entirely
happy, entirely satisfied. Perhaps it was only reaction after so many
hopes and fears, this weight that seemed to