d the newspapers were calling upon the
authorities to intervene. A danger to the public peace was threatened,
and the man who was chiefly to blame for it should be dealt with at once.
No matter that he was innocent of active sedition, no matter that he was
living a life devoted to religious and humanitarian reforms, no matter
that his vivid faith, his trust in God, and his obedience to the divine
will were like a light shining in a dark place, no matter that he was not
guilty of the wild extravagance of the predictions of his followers--"the
Father" was a peril, he was a panic-maker, and he should be arrested and
restrained.

The morning of Derby Day broke gray and dull and close. It was one of
those mornings in summer which portend a thunderstorm and great heat. In
that atmosphere London awoke to two great fevers--the fever of
superstitious fear and the fever of gambling and sport.

II.

But London is a monster with many hearts; it is capable of various
emotions, and even at that feverish time it was at the full tide of a
sensation of a different kind entirely. This was a new play and a new
player. The play was "risky"; it was understood to present the fallen
woman in her naked reality, and not as a soiled dove or sentimental
plaything. The player was the actress who performed this part. She was
new to the stage, and little was known of her, but it was whispered that
she had something in common with the character she personated. Her
success had been instantaneous: her photograph was in the shop windows,
it had been reproduced in the illustrated papers, she had sat to famous
artists, and her portrait in oils was on the line at Burlington House.

The play was the latest work of the Scandinavian dramatist, the actress
was Glory Quayle.

At nine o'clock on the morning of Derby Day Glory was waiting in the
drawing-room of the Garden House, dressed in a magnificent outdoor
costume of pale gray which seemed to wave like a ripe hayfield. She
looked paler and more nervous than before, and sometimes she glanced at
the clock on the mantelpiece and sometimes looked away in the distance
before her while she drew on her long white gloves and buttoned them.
Rosa Macquarrie came upstairs hurriedly. She was smartly dressed in black
with red roses and looked bright and brisk and happy.

"He has sent Benson with the carriage to ask us to drive down," said
Rosa. "Must have some engagement surely. Let us be off, dear. No time t