out woman,
and cautioned the host. The Brand had watched the scene calmly and
probably enjoyed it. When Arthur left with Grahame Mr. McMeeter had just
begun an address which described the policeman as a satellite, a
janizary, and a pretorian of Rome.

"They're doing a very neat job for Livingstone," said Grahame. "Maybe
there are fifty such places about the town. Little Ellen was lucky to
see her mother again. Most of these stolen children are shipped off to
the west, and turned into very good Protestants, while their mothers
grieve to death."

"Livingstone ought to be above such work."

"He is. He has nothing in common with a kidnapper like McMeeter. He just
accepts what is thrown at him. McMeeter throws his support at him. Only
high-class methods attract a man like Livingstone. Sister Claire, the
Escaped Nun, is one of his methods. We'll go and see her too. She
lectures at Chickering Hall to-night ... comes on about half after
nine--tells all about her escape from a prison in a convent ... how she
was enslaved ... How sin thrives in convents ... and appeals for help
for other nuns not yet escaped ... with reference to the coming election
and the great deliverer, Livingstone ... makes a pile of money."

"You seem envious," Arthur hinted.

"Who wouldn't? I can't make a superfluous cent being virtuous, and
Sister Claire clears thousands by lying about her neighbors."

They took a seat among the reporters, in front of a decorous, severe,
even godly audience, who awaited the coming of the Escaped Nun with
religious interest. Amid a profound stillness, she came upon the stage
from a rear door, ushered in by an impressive clergyman; and walked
forward, a startling figure, to the speaker's place, where she stood
with the dignity and modesty of her profession, and a self-possession
all her own.

"Stunning," Grahame whispered. "Costume incorrect, but dramatic."

Her dress and veil were of pale yellow, some woolen stuff, the coif and
gamp were of white linen, and a red cross marked the entire front of her
dress, the arms of the cross resting on her bosom. Arthur stared. Her
face of a sickly pallor had deep circles under the eyes, but seemed
plump enough for her years. For a moment she stood quietly, with
drooping head and uplifted eyes, her hands clasped, a picture of beauty.
After a gasp and a pause the audience broke into warm applause long
continued. In a sweet and sonorous voice she made her speech, and told
her st