ed, as he walked out and left them
to their sins.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE FIRST BLOW.

Mayor Birmingham and Grahame, summoned by messengers, met him in the
forever-deserted offices of Sister Claire. He made ready for them by
turning on all the lights, setting forth a cheerful bottle and some soda
from Claire's hidden ice-box, and lighting a cigar. Delight ran through
his blood like fire. At last he had his man on the hip, and the vision
of that toss which he meant to give him made his body tingle from the
roots of his hair to the points of his toes. However, the case was not
for him to deal with alone. Birmingham, the man of weight, prudence,
fairness, the true leader, really owned the situation. Grahame,
experienced journalist, had the right to manage the publicity department
of this delicious scandal. His own task would be to hold Claire in the
traces, and drive her round the track, show the world her paces, past
the judge's stand. Ah, to see the face of the Minister as he read the
story of exposure--her exposure and his own shame!

The two men stared at his comfortable attitude in that strange inn, and
fairly gasped at the climax of his story.

"The devil's in you. No one but you would have thought out such a
scheme," said Grahame, recalling the audacity, the cleverness, the
surprises of his friend's career from the California episode to the
invasion of Ireland. "Great heavens! but you have the knack of seizing
the hinge of things."

"I think we have Livingstone and his enterprise in the proper sort of
hole," Arthur answered. "The question is how to use our advantage?"

The young men turned to Birmingham with deference.

"The most thorough way," said the Mayor, after complimenting Arthur on
his astonishing success, "would be to hale Claire before the courts for
fraud, and subpoena all our distinguished enemies. That course has
some disagreeable consequences, however."

"I think we had better keep out of court," Arthur said quickly.

His companions looked surprised at his hesitation. He did not understand
it himself. For Edith Conyngham he felt only disgust, and for Sister
Claire an amused contempt; but sparkling Colette, so clever, bright, and
amiable, so charmingly conscienceless, so gracefully wicked, inspired
him with pity almost. He could not crush the pretty reptile, or thrust
her into prison.

"Of course I want publicity," he hastened to add, "the very widest, to
reach as far as London, and s