alked through it, and satisfied himself
that Mrs. Clephane was not there--nor Madeline Spencer, nor her
bald-headed companion.

He took a turn up and down the corridor, and up and down again. They
were not there.

He even walked through the dining-rooms.

Nothing!

"Hum!" said he, at length--and returned to the red-room, and to his
chair. It was quite possible that Mrs. Clephane would be back in a
moment--yet somehow he doubted.

He waited for a quarter of an hour, and she did not come. He made
another tour of Peacock Alley, the lobby, the dining-rooms, and back to
the red-room.

Nothing!

He looked at his watch--it was half-after-seven o'clock. He would wait
fifteen minutes longer. Then, if she had not come, he would go about his
business--which, at present, was to dine.

He sat with his watch in his hand, looking down the room and at those
who entered.

The fifteen minutes passed. He put up his watch and arose; the wait was
ended.

He crossed the corridor to the dining-room.

"The table in yonder corner, Philippe," he said, to the bowing
head-waiter.

"One, Monsieur Harleston?" the man replied; and himself escorted him
over and placed him, and took his order for dinner. From which facts it
can be inferred that Harleston was something of a personage at the big
caravansary.

The clams had just been placed before him, and he was dipping the first
one in the cocktail, when Madeline Spencer and the bald-headed man
entered and passed to a table--reserved for them--at the far side of the
room. Harleston knew that she saw him, though apparently she had not
glanced his way. Here was another move in the game; but what the game,
and what the immediate object?

His waiter whisked away the clam cocktail and put down the clear
turtle.

As Harleston took up his spoon, a page spoke a word to Philippe, who
motioned him to Harleston's corner. The next instant the boy was there,
a letter on the extended salver--then he faded away.

Harleston put aside the letter until he had finished his soup; then he
picked it up and turned it over. It was a hotel envelope, and addressed
simply: "Mr. Harleston," in a woman's handwriting--full and free, and,
unusual to relate, quite legible. He ran his knife under the flap and
drew out the letter. It was in the same hand that wrote the address.

"DEAR MR. HARLESTON:

"I've just seen someone whom I wish to avoid, so won't you be good
enough to dine with me in my apartment. It's