go on and read it; don't let me keep you from it. Some charmer,
I'll wager. Here I pour all my adventures into your ear, and I on my
side never so much as get a hint of yours. Go on, read it."

"Adventures, fiddlesticks! The letter can wait. It is probably a bill."

"A bill in a fashionable envelope like that?"

Hillard only smiled, tipped the cradle and refilled Merrihew's glass
with some excellent Romanee Conti. "When does Kitty sail?" he asked,
after a while of silence.

"A week from this Saturday, February second. What the deuce did you
bring up that for? I've been trying to forget it."

"Where do they land?"

"Naples. They open in Rome the first week in March. All the arrangements
and bookings seem to be complete. This is mighty good Burgundy, Jack. I
don't see where you pick it up." After coffee Merrihew pushed back his
chair. "I'll reserve a table in the billiard-room while you read your
letter."

"I'll be with you shortly," gratefully.

So, with the inevitable black cigar between his teeth, Merrihew
sauntered off toward the billiard-room, while Hillard picked up his
letter and studied it. His fingers trembled slightly as he tore open the
envelope. The handwriting, the paper, the modest size, all these pointed
to a woman of culture and refinement. But a subtle spirit of irony
pervaded it all. She would never have answered his printed inquiry had
she not laughed over it. For, pinned to the top of the letter was the
clipping, the stupid, banal clipping--"Will the lady who sang from
_Madame Angot_ communicate with gentleman who leaned out of the window?
J.H. Burgomaster Club." There was neither a formal beginning nor a
formal ending; only four crisp lines. But these implied one thing, and
distinctly: the writer had no desire for further communication "with
gentleman who leaned out of the window." He read and re-read slowly.

I am sorry to learn that my
singing disturbed you. There
was a reason. At that partic-
ular moment I was happy.

That was all. It was enough. She had laughed; she was a lady humorously
inclined, not to say mischievous. A comic-opera star would have sent her
press agent round to see what advertising could be got out of the
incident; a prima donna would have appealed to her primo tenore, for the
same purpose. A gentlewoman, surely; moreover, she lived within the
radius, the official radius of the Madison Square branch of the
post-office, for such was the postmark. Co