house to Josephine,
his "distant cousin from France," and in saying this they carefully gave
the impression that he had been well paid. Nobody dreamed that the money
Mr. and Mrs. Grant Doran-Reeves spent in such charming ways had once
belonged to Max. He was supposed to have "come a cropper" somehow, as so
many young men did, and to have disappeared with everything he had, out
of the country, for his country's good. When people realized that there
was a secret, perhaps a disgraceful one, many were sorry for poor Grant
and Josephine, mixed up in it through no fault of their own; and the
name of Max Doran was dropped from conversation whenever his innocent
relatives were within hearing distance. Then, by and by, it was
practically dropped altogether, because it had passed out of
recollection.

This was the state of affairs when the beautiful Billie (Mrs. Jeff
Houston) arrived, covered with diamonds and pearls (the best of the
latter were Max's), to storm social New York. She had already won its
heart as an actress, but as a respectable married woman who had left
the stage and connected herself by marriage with a sausage-maker she was
a different "proposition."

"You ought to know some woman in the smart set," advised a friend in the
half-smart set who had received favours from Billie, and had not been
able to give the right sort of return. "Oh, of course, you do know a lot
of the men, but they're worse than no use to you now. It must be a
woman, 'way high up at the top.'"

Billie racked her brains, and thought of Josephine Doran-Reeves.
Josephine was "way up at the top," because she was a Doran and very
rich, and so queer that she amused the most bored people, whether she
meant to or not. Unfortunately, Billie did not know her, but the next
best thing, surely, was to have known Max Doran.

Billie had made capital out of Max in the shape of a famous blue diamond
and a string of uniquely fine pearls, and her idea had been that she had
got all there was to be got from him. In fact, she had not mentioned
this little love-idyll even to her husband. Suddenly, however, she
remembered that they two had been dear, dear friends--perfectly platonic
friends, of course--and she felt justified in writing a sweet letter to
Josephine asking tactfully for news of Max. She put her point
charmingly, and begged that she might be allowed to call on dear Mrs.
Doran-Reeves, to chat cozily about "that darling boy," or would Mrs.
Doran-Reev