ome along to
Chauvin's," he said. "I will get a cab for you."

The only occupant of Chauvin's studio was a romantic-looking man wearing
a very dirty smock, a man who looked like an illustration for _La Vie de
Boheme_, so that a stranger must have mistaken him for a celebrated
artist although he actually combined the duties of a concierge with
those of a charwoman. He displayed no surprise when Flamby came in,
wild-haired, arrayed in Paul's Burberry.

"See if you can get a taxi, Martin," said Flamby, dropping into a huge
Jacobean arm-chair over which a purple cloak was draped. A King Charles
spaniel who had been asleep on a cushion awoke immediately and jumped on
to her knees. Flamby caressed the little animal, looking down at his
snub-nosed face intently. Paul walked up and down the studio. He began
speaking in a low voice.

"I had hoped, Flamby, that you had done as I once asked you to do and
dropped--Orlando James."

"I did," said Flamby quickly and continuing to caress the spaniel. "I
wrote to Don the very night you told me to."

"And I am sure that Don agreed with me."

"He did, yes. But--Don knows I still pretend to be friends with--James."

Paul stood still, facing her, but she did not look up. "Don knows this?"

Flamby nodded her head. She did not seem to care that her hair was in
disorder. "He knows that I hate James, though," she added.

"I don't understand at all. Whatever can have induced you to trust
yourself in that ruffian's studio?"

"I've been before. It was my fault. I made him think he was doing fine."

"Doing fine?"

"He is so infernally conceited. I wanted to let him down. But he got
desperate. He is not a man; he's a pig. But I threw a cabinet at him."

"Did you hit him?" asked Paul grimly.

"Yes; but I wish it had been a brick."

"So do I," replied Paul. "I shall not ask you for particulars, Flamby,
but I shall take certain steps which will make London too hot to hold
Mr. Orlando James." His restrained passion was electric and it acted
upon Flamby in a curious way and seemed to set her heart singing.

When Martin returned to report that a cab waited, Paul walked out under
the arch to the street and having placed Flamby in the cab, he held her
hand for a moment and their glances met. "Dear little wild-haired
Flamby," he said, and his voice had the same note of tenderness which
she had heard in it once before and of which she had dreamed ever since.
"Take care of yourself, little g