it wore an air of
peaceful inactivity. At a table a maitre d'hotel was composing the menu
for the evening, against the walls three colored waiters lounged
sleepily, and on a platform at a piano a pale youth with drugged eyes
was with one hand picking an accompaniment. As Wharton paused
uncertainly the young man, disdaining his audience, in a shrill, nasal
tenor raised his voice and sang:

"And from the time the rooster calls
I'll wear my overalls,
And you, a simple gingham gown.
So, if you're strong for a shower of rice,
We two could make a paradise
Of any One-Horse Town."

At sight of Wharton the head waiter reluctantly detached himself from
his menu and rose. But before he could greet the visitor, Wharton heard
his name spoken and, looking up, saw a woman descending the stairs. It
was apparent that when young she had been beautiful, and, in spite of an
expression in her eyes of hardness and distrust, which seemed habitual,
she was still handsome. She was without a hat and wearing a house dress
of decorous shades and in the extreme of fashion. Her black hair, built
up in artificial waves, was heavy with brilliantine; her hands, covered
deep with rings, and of an unnatural white, showed the most fastidious
care. But her complexion was her own; and her skin, free from paint and
powder, glowed with that healthy pink that is supposed to be the
perquisite only of the simple life and a conscience undisturbed.

"I am Mrs. Earle," said the woman. "I wrote you that note. Will you
please come this way?"

That she did not suppose he might not come that way was obvious, for, as
she spoke, she turned her back on him and mounted the stairs. After an
instant of hesitation, Wharton followed.

As well as his mind, his body was now acutely alive and vigilant. Both
physically and mentally he moved on tiptoe. For whatever surprise, for
whatever ambush might lie in wait, he was prepared. At the top of the
stairs he found a wide hall along which on both sides were many doors.
The one directly facing the stairs stood open. At one side of this the
woman halted and with a gesture of the jewelled fingers invited him to
enter.

"My sitting-room," she said. As Wharton remained motionless she
substituted: "My office."

Peering into the room, Wharton found it suited to both titles. He saw
comfortable chairs, vases filled with autumn leaves, in silver frames
photographs, and between two open windows a businesslike roller-