comfortable armchair and the lightest
novel he could find, and put the cigarette-box within easy reach. Thus
he passed an unprofitable but pleasant morning.

Miss Blair returned soon after one o'clock, and they had lunch together.
In the afternoon they went for a drive in a hired motor to Thames
Ditton. They stopped there for tea and got back to Bloomsbury about
seven. Lionel was put down at the flat and Miss Blair went on to the
theater, from which she returned late at night. Supper followed, and
then they smoked and chatted for half an hour before going to bed.
Lionel had expected to hear more of the conspiracy and projected felony,
but nothing was said. Wherefore he kept silence, awaited events, and
went to sleep, wondering whether a farce or tragedy was being played.

This uneventful life went on for several days, during which he had
plenty of time to study his hostess. He learned nothing more than he
knew already. A brilliant and charming personality, grave or humorous as
occasion demanded, apparently sincere in her conviction of a great
conspiracy, devoted to her absent husband, resolute to strike when
opportunity offered--such was Beatrice Blair. When he was in her company
he could not doubt her; alone, he could not help wondering what this
Arabian Night might mean. The utter fantasy of it all bewildered him,
but even if false he could not conceive her motive. In the end he
usually came back to the conclusion that the apparently absurd was true,
and always that at all costs he would see it through to the end.

Her attitude to him was that of a gay comrade. There were no more
"gratitude" kisses--no hint of danger. She had referred only once again
to his act of stopping the runaway horse and her wish to do something to
show her thankfulness. This he had laughed at; now that the opportunity
had come he was loath to use it; but in a subsequent conversation she
had learned that he had written several plays, all unacted, perhaps even
unread. One lay at that moment in the office of Ashford Billing, a
prominent manager; she knew him, and promised to spur him to read
Lionel's play himself. Lionel thanked her, but did not build any castles
on so flimsy a foundation. He had been knocking at managers' doors too
many years to have any illusions.

So day followed day without anything to break the pleasant monotony.
Lionel and Beatrice were rapidly cementing a friendship that was more
than a friendship to him. Only the remem