shapes of paper, startlingly
illuminated--all massed into an indescribable disorder of light and
color. Five amazed people were awaiting further developments.

Mrs. Astley-Rolfe was a charming widow of twenty-seven, who had
successfully gambled on her late husband's probable lease of life, and
was now in the throes of a wild attachment to George Copplestone, to
which he had shown himself by no means averse. She was somewhat languid
from an excess of luxury, unable to brook opposition even to a whim, and
as yet undefeated in the attainment of her desires, which were not,
perhaps, always to the credit of her sex. She had an insufficient
income, and a weakness for inscribing her signature on stamped slips of
paper, several of which, it was rumored, were in Copplestone's
possession. Her house in Grosvenor Gardens was an artistic paradise, and
was frequently visited by gentlemen from Jermyn Street, who seemed fond
of assuring themselves that its treasures remained intact.

A West-End clergyman, of Evangelical appearance, who translated French
farces under a _nom-de-plume_, was advocating, in confidence, the
abolition of the Censor to a well-known theatrical manager, whose assets
were all in the name of his wife. A bejeweled Russian danseuse, who
spoke broken English with a Highland accent, extolled the attractions of
theatrical investment to a Hebrew financier, who was feasting his eyes
on the curves of her figure, and hoping that she was sufficiently
hard-up. The entrance of Tranter and his huge companion created general
surprise. Mrs. Astley-Rolfe held up her hands prettily.

"You?" she exclaimed, to Tranter. "You--of all people--condescending to
visit our plane? The mystery is explained at once. The decorations are
for you--the Pillar of the State!"

"Indeed they are not," he assured her. He stood aside. "Permit me to
introduce my friend, Monsieur Dupont."

"This is delightful!" she smiled.

Monsieur Dupont bent over her hand.

"Madame," he declared, "I change completely my opinion of London."

"Where is Copplestone?" Tranter inquired, gazing with amazement round
the festooned room.

A frown passed over Mrs. Astley-Rolfe's face.

"He has not yet appeared. He sent in a message asking us to wait for him
here. He is up to some freak obviously."

"It is certainly a strange medley of color," Tranter admitted.
"Fortunately, I am not particularly susceptible--but to an artistic
temperament I can understand that the