mmon sense urged him to
dismiss the whole affair and laugh over it as the Lady in the Fog had
done. But common sense often goes about with a pedant's strut, and is
something to avoid on occasions. Here was a harmless pastime to pursue,
common sense notwithstanding. The vein of romance in him was strong, and
all the commercial blood of his father could not subjugate it. To find
out who she was, to meet her, to know her, if possible, this was his
final determination. He rang for paper and a messenger, and wrote:
"Madame Angot. There is a letter for you in the mail-department of this
office." This time his initials were not necessary. Once the message was
on its way, he sought Merrihew, whom he found knocking the balls about
in a spiritless manner.

"A hundred to seventy-five, Dan."

"For what?"

"For the mere fun of the game, of course."

"Make it cigars, just to add interest."

"Cigars, then."

But they both played a very indifferent game. At ten-thirty Merrihew's
eyes began to haunt the clock, and Hillard grew merciful for various
reasons.

"What time does the performance end?" he asked.

"At ten-fifty, but it takes about twenty minutes to scrape off the
make-up."

"Run along, then, my son; I can spare you. And you've a cigar coming."

Merrihew agreeably put his cue in the rack.

"Much obliged for the dinner, Jack. I'll return the favor any night you
say." He made off for the coat-room.

Hillard laughed, and went up to the writing-room to fulfil a part of his
destiny. He took the letter out and read it again. A woman of wit and
presence; a mighty good dinner companion, or he was no judge of women.
He replaced the letter in its blue covering, and then for the first time
his eye met the superscription. Like a man entranced he sat there
staring. The steward had brought the letter to him, and in his first
excitement this had made no impression upon his mind; he had seen
nothing peculiar nor strange. And here it was, not his initials, but his
name in full.

She knew who he was!

CHAPTER III

MADAME ANGOT

In a fashionable quarter of the city there stood a brownstone house,
with grotesque turrets, winding steps, and glaring polished red tiles.
There was a touch of the Gothic, of the Renaissance, of the old English
manor; just a touch, however, a kind of blind-man's-buff of a house. A
very rich man lived here, but for ten months in the year he and his
family fluttered about the social centers of