ympathetic impartiality of my spiritual
attitude. Although"--he menaced her with the licensed familiarity of a
philosopher--"although, lady, I must say that I felt you were working
against me all the time.... This way!"

(Edward Henry, recalling the comparative simplicity of the London
photographer at Wilkins's, thought: "How profoundly they understand
photography in America!")

Isabel Joy rose and glanced at the watch in her bracelet, then
followed the direction of the male hand and vanished.

Rentoul Smiles turned instantly to the other doorway.

"How do, Rent?" said Seven Sachs, coming forward.

"How do, Seven?" Mr. Rentoul Smiles winked.

"This is my good friend, Alderman Machin, the theatre-manager from
London."

"Glad to meet you, sir."

"She's not gone, has she?" asked Sachs, hurriedly.

"No, my housekeeper wanted to talk to her. Come along."

And in the waiting-room, full of permanent examples of the results of
Mr. Rentoul Smiles's spiritual attitude towards his fellow-men, Edward
Henry was presented to Isabel Joy. The next instant the two men and
the housekeeper had unobtrusively retired, and he was alone with his
objective. In truth, Seven Sachs was a notable organizer.

III

She was sitting down in a cosy-corner, her feet on a footstool, and
she seemed a negligible physical quantity as he stood in front of her.
This was she who had worsted the entire judicial and police system of
Chicago, who spoke pentecostal tongues, who had circled the globe,
and held enthralled--so journalists computed--more than a quarter of
a million of the inhabitants of Marseilles, Athens, Port Said, Candy,
Calcutta, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Hawaii, San Francisco, Salt Lake
City, Denver, Chicago, and lastly, New York! This was she!

"I understand we're going home on the same ship!" he was saying.

She looked up at him, almost appealingly.

"You won't see anything of me, though," she said.

"Why not?"

"Tell me," said she, not answering his question, "what do they say
of me, really, in England? I don't mean the newspapers. For instance,
well--the Azure Society. Do you know it?"

He nodded.

"Tell me," she repeated.

He related the episode of the telegram at the private first
performance of "The Orient Pearl."

She burst out in a torrent of irrelevant protest:

"The New York police have not treated me right. It would have cost
them nothing to arrest me and let me go. But they wouldn't. Every man
in