t's so!" he exclaimed. Then rising and offering his hand: "I
wish you happiness, Rue. You have my address. When you return, won't
you let me know where you are? Won't you let me know your husband?"

"Yes."

"Please do. You see you and I have a common bond in art, another in
our birthplace. Gayfield folk are your own people and mine. Don't
forget me, Rue."

"No, I won't."

So he took his leave gracefully and went away through the enthralling,
glittering unreality of it all leaving a young girl thrilled,
excited, and deeply impressed with his ease and bearing amid
awe-inspiring scenes in which she, too, desired most ardently to find
herself at ease.

Also she thought of his friend, the Princess Mistchenka. And again, as
before, the name seemed to evoke within her mind a recollection of
having heard it before, very long ago.

She wondered whether Neeland would remember to write, and if he did
she wondered whether a real princess would actually condescend to
invite her to take tea.

CHAPTER XI

THE BREAKERS

The east dining-room was almost empty now, though the lobby and the
cafe beyond still swarmed with people arriving and departing. Brandes,
chafing at the telephone, had finally succeeded in getting Stull on
the wire, only to learn that the news from Saratoga was not agreeable;
that they had lost on every horse. Also, Stull had another disquieting
item to detail; it seemed that Maxy Venem had been seen that morning
in the act of departing for New York on the fast express; and with him
was a woman resembling Brandes' wife.

"Who saw her?" demanded Brandes.

"Doc. He didn't get a good square look at her. You know the hats women
wear."

"All right. I'm off, Ben. Good-bye."

The haunting uneasiness which had driven him to the telephone
persisted when he came out of the booth. He cast a slow, almost sleepy
glance around him, saw no familiar face in the thronged lobby, then he
looked at his watch.

The car had been ordered for ten; it lacked half an hour of the time;
he wished he had ordered the car earlier.

For now his uneasiness was verging on that species of superstitious
inquietude which at times obsesses all gamblers, and which is known as
a "hunch." He had a hunch that he was "in wrong" somehow or other; an
overpowering longing to get on board the steamer assailed him--a
desire to get out of the city, get away quick.

The risk he had taken was beginning to appear to him as an unwarranted