Damned: The Intimate Story of a Girl (2024)

DAMNED
The Intimate Story of a Girl

ANONYMOUS

NEW YORK
THE MACAULAY COMPANY

DAMNED

DAMNED

CHAPTER I

An air of apprehension pervaded the throne room.

The most imperfect day known for ages in the Court ofGehenna was drawing to a close. The seven Tartareancourtiers had effaced themselves as far back in the auditoriumas the folds of its black and red electric hangingswould permit. Each held eyes and ears intent, realizing fartoo well that his particular tenure of preferment hung uponthe mood of the moment. Even the prime minister, OldOriginal Sin, who had weathered so many Apollyon stormsthat he well might have considered himself immune, sat illat ease in his chair of honor upon the dais.

His Satanic Majesty leaned forward from the thronechair, imposing in its effect of onyx and gold. His headdrooped as though from weight other than the voltage ofhis crown. His elbows pressed upon the chair-arms, thatboth his strong, long hands might stroke in turn his pointed,copper-colored beard. About the room, as lightning playsin advance of thunder, flashed his gray-eyed glances. Whenhe spoke, although in a mild voice, each auditor quiveredthrough taut nerves.

“Draw the night curtains. Throw on every switch. Idislike this pale, abiding light.”

Without awaiting the attendants, the courtiers sprang todo the royal will. Sin himself operated the electric switch-board.At his touch, a design in heraldry blazed from thewall behind the dais. In pseudo-seeming, bands of ebonyand of beryl formed the setting for a golden crown in basrelief, its points pricked out with emeralds. Projecting fromits headband, three horns of power suspended from theirtips the ruby-writ words “Japheth,” “Shem” and “Ham.”The crown itself looked to rest upon a sword that drippedall jewels known, like tears of every agony, from those ofwater to those of blood. Beneath, through letters transparentas thin sardonyx, flamed this caption:

SATAN the FIRST and LAST.
Outcast of Paradise
Heir-apparent to Earth
Monarch of Greater Gehenna

His Highness glanced back at this elaborate conceit anda gratified expression crossed his face. He signed a pageto spread out his crackling mantle of gold-bordered black;slanted a self-respecting look at the splendid proportionsrevealed through his easy-fitting body garment of opaquered light; matched his long-nailed finger-tips in pairs.

The seven waited with increased perturbation. They knewthat calm, considering look to presage some diabolical idea;realized that no flattery might blind that super-keen sight;appreciated that the day had run too unevenly for hopeof a restful end.

From the moment of the royal rising that early morn, theKing had seemed of malevolent mind. The attendants inhis private suite insisted that he had quit the royal bed fromthe right side. Yet he had seemed to assimilate perversityfrom his static shower, declaring the current hot when, infact, it was cold as refrigeration could make it. In a passionhe had unwound the small dynamo of a new costume consideredby his chief tailor a creation; later had hurled hisbreakfast filectric-mignon at the first chef, asserting thatit bore no resemblance, either in appearance or gastronomicsatisfaction, to the beefsteaks of men.

The inadequate light cast by his pet device, an imitationof Sol, had provoked a personally conducted investigationof the mammoth power plant in the lower badlands. Disregardingthe affairs which awaited his personal direction, hehad spent the noon hour tinkering at the mechanism of hissun, moon and flock of stars.

At the General Assembly of Demons his ill-temper hadgained momentum. After listening for a time in sneeringimpatience to suggestions offered as amendments to thegeneral proposition of standardizing crime, he had hurledupon that august body a very cataclysm of political overthrow.One by one he had assailed the ministry, down tothe most faded of those angel plotters cast out with him atThe Fall. Announcing that he would run the nether worldalone and unaided, he had dissolved the cabinet, assigningits members to labors futile as their protests.

In view of his treatment of those who had served himso long and so infernally, what was in store for merecourtiers, sycophants of a few recent centuries?

When he straightened in the throne-chair, each of theseven straightened with him. When, tilting his crown at aneasier slant, he glanced speculatively about, all crowded backagainst the highly charged curtains and tried to look indifferentat the shock.

His gaze settled upon the prime minister.

“Sin, you aborigine, a word!”

Old Original—so called because his visability, like theKing’s own, never had dimmed—made obvious effort toassume the sang-froid of one who knows himself to beindispensable; sauntered to the steps; bent in an obeisanceof elaborate mockery.

“Future of the Universe, I await your will,” he remarkedwith nasal twang.

Satan looked contemptuous of his handyman’s forcedeffrontery.

“I know you do. You’ve taken to awaiting my will entirelytoo much for your own good. There was a time when youwere full of vile ideas. But you’ve lost your ingenuity oflate. Since when have you designed a sin-mask that woulddeceive the least suspicious of earthlings or invented a newform of torture with which to demonstrate our canons ofdamnation?”

The aged demon, forced on the defensive, eyed the Masterwith reproach.

“Æons agone there ceased to be anything new beneaththe sun and I——”

“And you,” His Highness interrupted, “may be dispensedwith if that is true. I am proficient in all the old tricksmyself. However, I am disposed to give you a chance todisprove it, being ever kind and just. Is that not true?”The lightning of his look threatened the seven sycophants.“Am I not ever kind and just?”

“As the hope of Hell!”

“Oftener than ever!”

“In our best-worst interests, Sire!”

The medley whined from the shimmering shadows.

Sin’s voice gained in assurance, even as his mind lost atthe trend of Satanic argument.

“But, my King, haven’t I had the whole mortal world atwar? Didn’t I trick all peoples into slaughter of each otheras you planned?”

“I notice you use the past-perfect tense in speaking of thatlate little unpleasantness. As a matter of fact we lost outon it—lost our one best bet since Noah and the Flood. Howdid you make the mistake of assuming that any scrapperwho falls fighting for his country could be condemned by hisfellow men? The worst of them is guaranteed a passportto Abraham’s bosom. As for the leaders—the brains ofthe drive—most of them were lost to us through that meanestof mortal weaknesses, fear for the integrity of their ownhides. They all want to live. That is what’s wrong withconquerors. When earth-wars are such good trainingfor——”

His Highness’ teeth bit the sentence in two. His saber-likegaze slashed suspiciously from face to face.

“You do your own army an injustice to compare itsmorals with that of any on earth,” soothed the old toady.“I’ll acknowledge that I am somewhat used up. Even Sinmight get brain-fa*g, you know.”

“That excuse is antedated. You have had ample time torecuperate.” The royal digits made a crackling sound asthey touched. “You failed egregiously on every importantspecification of the big fight. Did you keep them at it untilthe world was engulfed in one red sea of gore? Did youinoculate hate until it over-ruled every gentler human impulse?Did you overcome the too-young at home and thetoo-old who were to instruct them and the women who wereto bear the spawn to continue the slaughter? With all thepossibilities of modern wholesaleness, that war was nothalf what it should have been.”

“Admitting all you say,” the prime minister defended, “Idon’t see cause for your august dissatisfaction over ourprogress with the mortal world.”

“You don’t? What you need is an oculist.”

His Majesty descended the steps and began to pace thegreat room.

“I have had a day of realization,” he continued in liftedvoice. “Something must be done. Things are too slow tosuit my purposes. We are not getting our share of thosewho enter Shadow Land. Entirely too many are ticketedthrough to the Fields by Mors.”

“You know, Sire, something of my efforts to buy thatstubborn old keeper of the outer gate,” interpolated Sin.“Nothing I offer seems to have any value to him. He ispolite enough, but drones always the same reminder that forthe present he must abide by the records of Earth.”

“The trouble is not with Mors, fool fiend,” Satan snapped.“It is with that book of his—with the ‘Judgments of Men.’The feelings of mortals do soften sickeningly toward theirdead. They say the good die young. Certainly we try tosee to it that the bad die old. That’s why everything hasseemed to depend upon our new searchlight summoningtowers. Mors is able, with only two such towers rangedon either side the Mystery Gate, to make his lists, set hisautomatic finders and turn on his power. What results?Every evening and all night long they come at his call.There’s certainly nothing attractive about the patriarch. Heis grim as the first law of mortality and looks it. Yet everywitness he subpœnas comes. Nothing stops them, the long,drear journey, the fear of the unknown, the hissing belly-crawlersalong the way. What happens when I build adozen searchlight towers to his two? I make my selectedlist of earthlings for whom no modern Ananias could passa good word. I set my alleged finders and turn on all thepower we can generate. With what result?”

Glaringly though he challenged reply, none who knew hislatest scheme to add to the population of his kingdom daredremind him of its failure. Of necessity he answered himself.

“For a week now our tower tops have been shafting callsto Earth. Has one of the nominated accepted? I am forcedto admit that there is something more to this death businessthan searchlighting. I’ve never been so disappointed sincePontius Pilate double-crossed me.”

“Wait until Mors summons the choice crowd of leadersyou mention who started the world war,” Sin suggested.

“Wait? That seems to be your persistent idea. I tell youwe can’t afford to wait.”

Halting before the lesser fiend, Satan seared him with alook.

“I don’t expect you even to suggest where the AssociatedElectricians of Gehenna have failed. And in other respectsyour title and office are jeopardized. I offer you a lastchance to save them. If overnight you invent some newfeasible scheme for conscripting earthlings into our standingarmy, your job is saved. If not——”

“The feasible idea already is invented and its workingsunder way, O King. Compared with it, all our past schemesare limited and crude. Camouflaged under propaganda ofuniversal appeal, it cannot fail to start a whirlpool which will,in time, suck every man, woman and child into moral death.”

“You refer to Bolshevism, I suppose? Not a good idea—notgood at all. The germ of it has lain in my mind forcenturies. I’d suggest that you saunter to the outer gatesand quiz the evening’s grist. You might happen upon a Redrecruit with cheering news.”

“The very thing I was about to propose,” Old Originalmade reply on his way to the door.

The ruler frankly sneered. “Great minds, eh? Are youtrying to flatter yourself or me? While you are going, takethe wall decorations with you.” He included the courtiersin his gesture. “How many centuries do you obsoletes needto rise to the worst that’s in you? Do you suppose for onesplit-second—mortal time—that I’d work with evil naturesas I have done since that fracas up in Paradise just for thecompany of the evilest of them through eternity? Byto-morrow I shall have decided what to do with such choiceparasites. Out with you, or I’ll fit my skeleton key to thetrap-door of the bottomless pit and throw you in beforeyour time.”

With alacrity which showed their relief at this temporaryescape, the seven followed the prime minister through theseparating rays of the rear curtain.

Satan looked to share their relief that they were gone.For a space silence reigned with him in the throne roomexcept for the snap of his heels upon the floor and theswish of the royal robe. His reflection in one of the mercurizedpanels of the side walls caused him to halt. Forlong he studied his face, then, straightening, appreciated hismagnificent outlines. A look of satisfaction cleared thefrown of evil affairs from his brow. Lifting his crown,he bowed into the mirror.

A voice from behind the curtain also saluted him:

“‘No wonder that thy heart was lifted up, that thy wisdomwas corrupted by reason of thy brightness.’”

“Step out, caitiff. Be as apparent as your flattery. Whydo you linger to spy upon me when I order the courtcleared?”

A Balial glare fixed upon the returned minister’s ingratiatinggrin.

“Not to spy upon you, Sire. Rather, to admire you. Youcertainly are the Boss of Below for looks.”

His Highness, never having outlived his first fault ofvanity, gave benefit of doubt to the compliment, as also tothe glass-like tumbler bewhiskered with crisp-crackling greenheld toward him.

“I thought Your Majesty’s harassed spirit might feel inneed of refreshment, so made bold to have this quaff mixed.It is as near as may be like those they have voted too strongfor the United States of America, suh. Here you are—afrappé low-bolt!”

Sin proffered both explanation and cup with that irrepressibilitywhich so far had made, but at any moment mightbreak him. With sympathy sips, he watched the samplingof the liquidized current concocted by the first royal bartender,a past-master indeed of the art before it was amendedoff Forty-second Street and Broadway, New York.

“Get the kick?” he asked, fearing as much as hoping thatthe julep would fail of its effect.

Satan threw the goblet on the floor, where it snapped andflashed, but did not break.

“If I didn’t, you would.”

Sin believed him. From experience he had learned thedifficulty of gauging the moods of m’lord after a few suchapplications had filed or smoothed the edges of his tooth-sharptemper. For safety’s sake he gave a side glance intothe sensitized panel.

“Notice the size of you as compared with me—and I amsupposed to be well-developed from my criminal calisthenics.”

His Highness frowned. He also “noticed.”

“Where is the value in good looks,” he conceded, “ifthere’s none around whom you admire to admire you?”

Old Original was quick to follow the advantage. “A wordon that very subject is what I returned to say, a word ofcondolence and advice.”

“You offer condolence and advice to me?” The King ofEvil glared at the most malapert fiend of his kingdom.

“Condolence, Sire, over your state of solitariness. Adviceas to how to ease it. From my hurting envy of your appearanceI realize one littleness in my largeness. Absoluteadmiration may endure only where envy may not spring.Why does not Your Majesty seek that companionship whichis not born to jealousy? Isn’t there a complete assortmentof rags and bones and hanks of hair in Gehenna’s bargainbasem*nt?”

“You suggest for me the companionship of—” Satanpaused briefly to sneer—“of a female shade? Don’t yousuppose, if I cared for the sex, that I’d be running a haremof all nations, stocked with every famed siren, from Helen ofTroy forwards and back? You should know by this time,old weakling, that your spirit in women doesn’t appeal to meany more than to mortal profligates. And the pulchritude ofmost has gone by the time they get here.”

“But there are the dewy-looking souls loitering aboutthe Fields. Why not break the rule that there may be notransference between Elysium and the Lower Land beforethe Call? Aren’t you the exception to all rules? Why notan adventure for Your Excellency such as often we haveseen in the cinemized episodes of modern villains—an abduction,say, of the most visible and fair before the guards caninterfere? Don’t despise my idea, generated from a convictionthat the chief lack in your life is loneliness.”

“An angel for me?” Mirthlessly His Highness laughed.“Sir Sin, they bore me limp as a summer-resort collar. Tobe sure that a she-soul is going to be eternally good is a fractionworse than to be sure she’ll be eternally bad. No, philanderer,you’ll have to do better than that. There is not afemale, quick or dead, for whose absolute admiration I’dgive a plugged nickel.”

The click of the door-knocker punctuated this assertion.Satan strode to the throne; replaced his crown; signaled theminister to respond.

Soon Sin bowed low before his Master, a look of evilanimation on his face.

“Already the Seven have returned, Sire. They reportthat a goodly number of bad ones were crowding throughthe gates. Among others, they interviewed a couple who,they thought, may interest Your Majesty. They await yourpleasure without.”

“May divert My Majesty from complaint of them, youmean. Yet I suppose that they, as well as you, should havethat proverbial last chance due evil intenders. By no meansmake any diverting shade await my displeasure. Page, bidthem enter The Presence.”

Royal tolerance fled, however, at sight of the candidates.

“A crippled old soldier and a woman with a sucklingbabe! It behooves me to find some way of revising thecurrent notion of what constitutes My Majesty’s diversion.”

He relapsed into silence as the new-comers were half led,half dragged toward the dais by a pair of the scrub-oakdwarfs who ushered inside the Gehennan gates. By lightof the dynamo that is within each soul, they were clothed asin the habiliments they had worn in their late estate onearth, he in a rusty uniform, she in nun’s gray. With hiscrutch the cripple resented their intent to be rough, but histravel-mate stumbled forward without resistance, her headdrooped so low that her long, loose hair swaddled the whimperinginfant shade in her arms.

The kingly choler increased when, at the steps, she sankas though from exhaustion rather than reverence to herknees. One last, promising glare he shot at Old Originaland the seven, then spoke in a voice quiet, yet more direto those who knew him than any thunder-clap.

“To swoon, madam or miss, is out of date down here. Ipray you postpone the attempt for some less sophisticatedaudience.”

Sin, leaning forward from his especial chair just back ofthe throne, dared to insinuate: “And I pray you, Damnity,do not sentence her until you have considered her. There issomething exceptional about her. She may have been sentto prove that idea of mine.”

Satan scorned to notice the suggestion.

“Come,” he ordered the woman soul, “show your passport.”

As though from shame, she crumpled against her breasta scarlet slip. Shaking back her hair, she looked up athim.

His Highness, startled, returned her look. He did notheed or hear Sin’s gasp of anticipation. He forgot theseven, the pages and the dwarfs. Leaning lower, he lookedand looked.

Truly he, who had been the fate of most fair womensince Eve, never had beheld one of a face of such appeal.

CHAPTER II

The multiple-candle glow from the Mephistophelian coat-of-armslit the girl-soul’s features. From a veil that wellmight have been worn on Earth for mourning, so blackwas her hair and enveloping, they gleamed as if carved fromParian marble. The curve of her chin, the fullness of lipsblent into faint, downward-traced lines, the tube-rose textureof her cheeks, all lent a suggestion of pliancy, evenweakness. Above, her classic nose and broad foreheadoffered contradiction—were sculped as from a master’sinspiration.

Lesser wonders as to the personality behind the marblemask merged into that aroused by her eyes. Colored likethe purpling depths of a midnight sky, they concealed, ratherthan revealed. From beneath straight brows they gazedforth, not as a hope that is lost in darkness, but as hoperesting from its weariness, to rise again at dawn. Overher face they shed a light of mystery that made its beautynegligible—a mystery based neither on courage nor fear,pride nor shame, joy nor dole. They asked what confusedthe mind and haunted the imagination, that demand of why—why—towhich only the Creator of souls Himself one daymay make satisfactory reply.

Intently as the spirit-girl studied the new arbiter of hersorry fate was he studying her. At first he did not move.Then the finger-tips of his one hand sought those of theother. As they met, the ruby-red setting of his signet ringdischarged a spark.

“The sight of you sounds like some song of Destiny,”said he.

“And only Destiny could be accountable for her presentplight.” The crippled soldier, handling his crutch with theskill of long practice, approached the throne. His one heelclicked against the floor in a salute peculiar to the wars ofyester-year. “Might I say a few words, sir, for this youngmother? I got to know her well on the awful journey intoShadow Land.”

Satan, turning to him, saw that age had not blurred ayouthful eagerness in his parchment face and the faded blueof his eyes.

“And why,” he scoffed, “should you speak a few wordsfor her, or a couple, or even one—you, a mere piece of aman?”

“That you will know, sir, after you know her. A meregirl she is. Nothing truthful, I’m sure, could be writtenagainst her account in the records of Earth.”

“You evade my question.” Royal annoyance over the interruptionwas turned from him to his sponsors. “Why, youimperfect seven, a one-legged veteran of a past decade?”

The prime minister intervened. “Old One-leg here is notso weak a new idea as he looks. While he has not foughtin the latest battles of Earth, he has been absorbed in them,he says, and theoretically knows all there is to be known ofmodern tactics.”

His Highness’ shoulders shrugged. “None can say thatI am not glad to believe the worst of every man. Has he apassport?”

Aloud he read the soldier-shade’s card:

“Samuel Cummings, N.C.O. In youth deserted when battlewas on. Changed his name and lost his identity for a time.Later reënlisted, was wounded in service, but not distinguished.Called from Soldier’s Home.”

The cripple’s free hand brushed one ear, as if forcefullyto eject the words. “I deserted, yes. But she lay sick abed,my girl bride, and I loved her better than myself. Afterwardsnot a man in our company fought more careless thanCorporal Sam. But we had a saying at the Home that you’vegot to be conscripted into the army of death. Only cowardsvolunteer.”

“Once a deserter, always one,” His Highness maderemark. “Don’t you see that more important affairs thanyours await? Just remember this, no wife is worth desertinga good fight for.”

Corporal Sam, with head sagging and shoulders disturbedby more than his crutch, stepped aside. But a wonderfullight shone from his blue eyes into the Satanic gray ones.

“I know,” he muttered, “that what made my Mary Gertrudeworth deserting for can’t ever die. I saw her in theborder fields this very evening. She couldn’t go on, you see,without me. She had promised to wait around for meuntil——”

“Silence, old nuisance,” Sin advised. “One doesn’t mentionthe Second Call in The Presence.”

He need not have feared. His Majesty’s attention hadreturned to the girl-shade. A long moment he studied her;closed his eyes; quickly opened them to study her again.The puzzlement at first on his features changed to semi-recognition.

“That look in your eyes—— What is it, that look? I seemto know you, woman, although I cannot place you. Do youremember having seen me before?”

“I don’t think that I ever have seen you. But I’ve knownmen on Earth that resembled you.” Her voice was that of acathedral bell retarding over the last phrase of the hymn.

“It must be that I have trailed you afar, probably at thestart of the career that brought you here. Let us see howyou’re written down in Mors’ copy from the book.”

Sin transferred the card from her clutch. With characteristicbravado, he read the start of it aloud.

“Dolores Trent, Grief to Men, and bastard babe.”

“What’s that you say?” With unwonted eagerness, Satanpossessed himself of the passport. “That is quite a title,‘Grief to Men.’ I like it.”

He smiled peculiarly while giving his eyes to Earth’sverdict of the newcomer, as transcribed from that tomecalled “Judgments of Men” which is in charge of Mors,keeper of the Great Gates into Shadow Land. From betweenthe two lines of his strong, white teeth, his tongueappeared and smoothed both lips.

The girl-soul, with the equivocal expression of one bothfascinated and repulsed, watched him as he read:

“Dolores Trent, known as ‘Grief to Men.’ A cause of disasterfrom first breath to last. Her birth caused the death of hermother, whose loss brought her father to ruin. Directly responsibleis she held for the wrecked careers of a successfulmerchant, an eminent Divine, a skilled healer, a previously exemplarymillionaire, and an attorney of repute. As a climax,the supreme crime of womanhood is hers—an illegitimate child.Through life she has spread sorrow in her wake. Unto deathshe carries her murdered ill-begot, a suicide without repentanceor appeal.”

The King commented: “Æons have come and gone sinceI have felt surprise. Completely did that look of yoursdeceive me. And Raphael must have altered the face of hisMadonna had he first seen yours.”

Arising, he stepped from the dais, settled his crown atrifle more to one side and slicked his vandyke with meticulouscare. He then approached the cowering figure on thesteps.

“It is unseemly that you should remain upon your knees,madam or miss, when many stand who probably are not halfso bad as you. Allow me.”

Stooping, he lifted her to her feet.

She straightened to face him with a show of bravery.

“I was misunderstood on Earth,” she said. “In thisexistence, I hope for justice.”

“Fear not,” he assured her. “In Gehenna you shall receivejustice, Dolores Trent, as meted by that world which haslearned you to its sorrow and, it would seem, to your own.”

“I’ll tell you—I swear to you, sir, that I have done no manwilling wrong.”

He greeted her protest with a punctilious laugh, as thoughover an attempt at wit.

“Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief——”

“But you will not punish my baby for my faults?” Abreeze of terror swung the cathedral bell. “Only look ather, sir. She is too tiny, you see, for the vaguest thoughtof wrong. To her, at least, be merciful.”

“Oh, Hell, be merciful!” Satan mocked her. “That too-latewail has been dinned into my ears until it is a wonderthat I can hear you at all. Cheer up. You won’t have topart from it—I beg its pardon—her. Have you not heardthat a child conceived in sin must take his—its chances withher progenitors?”

At the low, protesting cry which escaped the mother, helaid a hand on her shoulder, then allowed his arm to settleabout her, as though measuring her height by his own. Histouch appeared to repulse her. Shuddering, she passed theinfant shade to the other arm and stood irresolute, evidentlytrying to decide how best she might release herself.

A commotion at the door claimed the court’s attention.Through the light-striped hangings, slipping from the gripof the pygmies, two comely creatures seemed verily to floatacross the throne-room, a youth costumed as a knight anda guileless-looking maid. He, drawing her by the hand,pressed toward the group before the dais. Lithe of body andardent of eye, he caught the arm of the King and sought toremove it from about the suppliant’s form. As the pursuingdwarfs seized him with their over-long reach, His Highnessfound himself looking down into the flower-face of the girlintruder—into eyes shy and fearless as violets at dawn.

“And whom,” he enquired, “have we here?”

The minister undertook to announce them. “A pair bythe stagy names of Innocentia and Amor. They call themselvesguardian spirits and have a talent, which few sharewith Your Excellency and myself, of absolute invisibility.They lined up in a most theatric way beside the wenchDolores outside the door. As they had no passports anddid not seem to belong, I sent them back—or thought Idid.”

Satan considered Sin and them. “Where is your sense ofhumor, Old Original, that you explain them to me? I can’tsay that I should have regretted Amor. We have all varietiesof him down the Lane of Labors. But Innocentia! Youmight have appreciated that I seldom get a chance to see herwings flutter or hear her heart beat from fear. Tell me, youtwo, what madness is driving you?”

“There has been some mistake about the girl Dolores,”Amor declared. “Earth has passed another false judgment.Shouldn’t I know who have been with her since first she metthe father of her child?”

“You refer, I presume, to her husband?”

The love-lad’s head threw back in defiance at the jibe. ButInnocentia flushed as she took up the defense.

“I have been with our dear Dolores always, more a partof her than the blood in her veins, since that has ceased toflow and I am come with her into Shadow Land. She hasheeded all my cautions against the wiles of men. Neveronce has she offended me.”

“More sinned against than sinning, eh?” His Highnessplucked an imaginary tear from one eye. “Often as awoman has been damned have I heard that plea.”

“Only see for yourself, Sire, how she shrinks from yourtouch—how she suffers. We pray you, release her.”

“Little pest, don’t you know that I enjoy defying you?”

Even as he scoffed, however, his clasp of the motherrelaxed. He ascended the steps and reseated himself in thethrone chair.

“Innocence and love—certainly a strange companionship,”he observed. “Odd that they don’t fade out, when they areless material than the dimmest spirit in the inter-world.Shoo them back whence they came, ushers. We must get tothe case in hand.”

“Oh, I beg you, sir, let them stay!” Dolores interceded.“You’ll find that they enter and exit quietly as thoughtsof the mind.”

“Thoughts of the mind get very much in my way,” Satansnapped.

At his show of impatience, Innocentia pressed her lipsto the cheeks of the babe. “Do not distress yourself,Dolores dear. It is best that we should disappear. But inGehenna, as on Earth and in the Fields, we see no gates andacknowledge no commands.”

“Always remember,” Amor added, “the great love of JohnCabot. Send him the strength of your good faith. In yourlate life it did seem that he forsook you. But when hecomes to the mystery world, he will seek you, never fear.”

“I shall remember,” Dolores assured them in a low aside.“That night we said our vows, I swore that I believed.Despite appearances, Amor, I do—I must believe.”

Old Original approached them. “Why unwind these fare-ye-wellswhen your taxi’s waiting? Accept my arm to thedoor, Miss Innocentia. You look almost overcome.”

Waggishly he escorted her out.

The while His Majesty’s frown lowered to the pygmeanpair salaaming before the dais.

As in one whine they put the formal demand: “To whatfutile labors, O King, shall we consign these recruits?”

Satan shaded his eyes with one hand. He appeared notto be thinking so much as looking. As if from under ablower, the inflammable imagination of him glowed—glowedon Dolores Trent.

The prime minister, on returning, settled in his chair andclaimed the keen ear which, through ages past, had consideredhis suggestions.

“This modern Delilah, Excellency, I consider unique inthat she cannot be classed by the naked eye. She is not, soto speak, a type. Might I call your attention to the tact withwhich she maintains silence, while you——”

“You might not. I detest to have fine bits of the playdiagramed by my seat-mate. Have I or have I not eyesof my own?”

“But, Sire——”

“But the buts! Haven’t I paid at least as much admissionas you?”

All eyes focused upon the Master, except those of theancient hypocrite. His settled appreciatively upon her whoindeed had distracted the royal resentment from himself.The pause which lapsed he had the temerity to break,although in a vague voice, as if to himself:

“Hell to be lonely.... Some sympathy soul.... Bosslooker like you.... Try anything once or twice.”

“Try anything once and forever except hoodwinking me.”

If Sin’s pride was hurt by the King’s public rebuke, itmust have been salved next moment with the proof that hisadvice was being found tenable.

His Highness to the court: “As a bad lot, this earthlingpair would seem to deserve labors different from any yetdevised. Until I decide upon some special form of punishmentI shall keep them in the palace. Dame Dolores comeshighly recommended to my ingenuity. That I may observeher vices, I appoint her for the nonce First Royal Entertainer.She shall relate to me those griefs which she hascaused on Earth.”

His glance veered to the veteran.

“Always have I envied the angels their ability to weep—neverhave lived down the ambition to emulate their pietismwith just one tear. Mayhap I shall be moved to that extentby these earth-tales of Grief to Men. I am so temperamental.In view of which possibility, Samuel Cummings, Ihereby create for you the office of Holder of the CrocodileTear Bowl to my Majesty. As for the bastard babe——”

Dolores, at his flint-hard gaze, clutched closer the tinysoul of her soul. Intensely she awaited his words.

“Don’t crucify yourself with maternal fears, my beauty.We are pleased to let the Littlest Devil stick around. Evernotice how the strongest villain has weakness for a brat?Yours is about as young as they come—almost a native, onemight say. He will give the palace a homey look.”

“She, sir.”

“She. I beg its pardon.”

“You are so much kinder than I was led to expect.” Tohis consideration the young mother lifted the radium glowof her gratitude. “From hints I heard at the Mystery Gate,I gathered that you were—that you might be——”

The delicacy of such comment was impressed upon her bythe interested expression of its subject. As she paused inconfusion, a Balialic smile lightened his countenance.

“Beginning on me already, sweet Grief—and with theold baby-eyed confidence game? Even so, you are differentfrom the rest of the damned Delilahs.”

Unexpectedly he clapped his hands. Invective, sarcasmand abuse greeted the courtiers and pages who sprang toreceive and execute his orders.

“Get the machinery of this court geared up, will you?Light the snuffed lucifers that are supposed to illuminatemy life. Affairs in general are going to be run more accordingto the ways of Earth, or certain helliots will be putthrough their third and last degree before their appointedtime. You, tell that new chef that I have some few untriedtorments for him if he does not excel his predecessorsto-night. He’s to prepare a banquet that will taste as wellas look. Dynobasco Sauce for my burnt-out stomach, themead that sears to wash it down—all the trimmings. Andyou, tell the head landscape gardener that I want moonlightto-night—gobs of it—and a free play of juice through theGarden of Bad Luck. Have him throw the limit in effect—fountainsand foliage and tropical bloom. I want the mistressof royal robes paged at once. Wonderful electricianthough she is, she hasn’t had a worthwhile order since Cleopatracast me for Anthony II. in a little domestic dramawhose tragic last act rather overbalanced the light lines ofthe start. We shall see what her genius at fabric effects cando for this trail-worn lady. Remind her of how Shakespeareonce remarked: ‘Glad rags don’t spoil the work ofany tragedienne.’”

The crook of a royal finger brought Old Original to hisside.

“Sin, I wish you personally to see to the selection of asuitable tear-bowl. Take care that it is polished. Ourelectro-silver plate tarnishes so quickly from its own heat.And make sure it doesn’t leak. My first crocodile tear mustbe preserved—a glittering trophy to adorn the filet ofm’lady Grief. Now begone, all of you. The biggest littleséance since Creation is going to commence to-night.”

Alone, to his reflection in the mirror, he telepathed:

“I know that she is different from the different effect onme. Because I don’t doubt that she’s bad, I don’t dislikeher looking good. She is unique, this Dame Dolores. Imay be able to use her. Should I approve her method inthose troubles she caused on Earth, I just might show hersome larger responsibilities.”

Through the seven courses of that most remarkable offeasts, the spirit-girl Dolores exerted herself to please theirSatanic host, for sake of her babe if not herself. Splendidbeyond words was his appearance, from his scintillant crownto the hem of a mantle charged to imitate iridescent metalcloth. Corporal Sam Cummings she scarcely had recognized,so changed was he by the steel-scaled costume of anold-time knight in which he came arrayed, a veritable “armourof light.”

Without vanity, she appreciated the kindly soldier-soul’sgasp at first sight of her, having herself been surprised bythe achievement of the mistress of robes.

A twist of green flame bound her hair and suspended onelarge drop, like an emerald of great price, low upon herbrow. The rays of her body garment clung close, representinga material sewn through with threads of gold. Thisfell only to her pearl-roped ankles, but a long cloak oftranslucent green waved behind her when she moved, likethe following billows of the sea.

Her beauty she had learned to deplore. To-night shefeared it. Something worse than admiration had shone inthe lurid gaze of the prime minister and lesser courtierdemons, something disturbing in the silent, critical inspectionof His Highness.

Gracious enough had been Satan’s manner. Not until hesampled the last course of the delusive seven did his irritationbreak bounds. He demanded the presence of the first chef.

“What was my last promise if you didn’t concoct somethingI could taste?” he demanded of that unworthy. “Whydo you suppose I had you heat-tormented to suicide in theBrillon kitchens in Paris if I didn’t expect you to do betterby me gastronomically than your predecessors? I have beenimprovising tortures for cook-soul failures for more centuriesthan the blades of near-grass used to tint this pistacheice. Bah, heats me to look at it! Soon as I can replaceyou, into the hole for Traitors to Mothers you drop.”

The wretch wrung his hands. “Not there, your Majesty!I loved my mère. And is not my present labor futileenough? Almost do I despair of tempting the palate of animmortal, with nothing but chimeras as ingredients—withflour of the bleached dust of hopes and paprika and baking-powderof imaginary ground brick or brimstone.”

“I do not grant that your labor is futile,” Satan snapped.“Surely you’ll agree that the Ruler of Greater Gehenna deservesthe Epicurean joys afforded gluttonous nobodies ofEarth? I want to eat, I tell you. Of course I am more orless immaterial. Every soul in Shadow Land is, the new-comersless, the old-timers more. But the appetites ofEarth appeal more to me than the self-sufficiency of theangels. I intend to have them—and to have them satisfied.If by to-morrow you have not risen to the concoction ofsomething to tempt me, into the hole for Traitors to——”

With what sincerity she could assume, Dolores interposed.“I am sure I never tasted a more delicious pasty.”

“Is that true? Can you taste it?”

Satan’s gaze was upon her with the questions, his expressionmore than wontedly repulsive from greed. Then wrathat her caught him.

“Liars are to be commended in a bad cause, but pitiers!You must conquer such impulses. Acknowledge that youhave experienced only the vaguest reminiscence of taste.Come, let us leave this farce of a feast. I have chosen myChamber of Chance as the most fit setting for your tale ofthe game of life. Lady champion of griefs, precede me.”

He pushed back from the table. The attendants scrambledafter his example. The head butler turned Dolores’chair. She found herself sweeping past the demon parasites,then past His Majesty, standing with head bent andhand on heart, a derisive smile upon his face. A page, at agesture of the King, gathered up the phosphorescent billowsof her mantle.

She fell into the accent of certain strains of music whichwere playing a dim, yet definite march of the dead. Noocean ever sobbed more sympathetic plaint. No snarl offife or beat of drum ever timed sterner step. The musicbetween two spheres—had Handel heard it in his dream ofSaul?

The Royal Entertainer was placed in the strongest light ata faro table which centered a room black-hung and artisticallydimmed for the occasion. Satan sat opposite as a mereauditor, his eyes glowing like lit lamps from the shadow.

“A hint or two or three before you begin,” said he.“Remember that the story’s the thing. If it doesn’t grip,aside from the fact that you are telling it, you’ll have failedin your art. You’ve read some of the old-fashioned Frenchnovels, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, Sire, and in the original. My father was atranslator and taught me to read in several languages,French, Russian, Spanish——”

“Doesn’t all that come in the story? Don’t insult ourintelligence with repetitions. Try to emulate the speed ofmodern fictionists, with the—shall we say the slow-mindednessof the old? And leave out the asterisks. We who havecrossed into Mystery Land have every right to know what’sbehind the stars.”

“You mean——” she faltered.

“In brief, this: give us a tale with style, but all passagesthat should be expurgated left in.”

Dolores, confused rather than enlightened by these specifications,essayed her earth-life story with what sprightlinessshe might.

“You know New York City?”

“Do I know New York—I who invented it?”

Her start was fortuitous; although not intended to behumorous, won the tribute of a chuckle from him at thehead of the narrow monk table.

“Since you know New York, King Satan——”

“Call me Pluto,” suggested he. “It is my friendliestname.”

“King Pluto”—she gave him a smileless nod of agreement—“youdoubtless have heard of Harlem flats?”

Again he chuckled. “Some of our best little badger games,jealousies, murders and other such trivial offenses have beenconceived and executed in Harlem flats. Eh, old Original?We call them ‘incubators of discontent.’ I have visited afew in person on special occasions, although generally one ofthe under-demons proves bad enough to start the regularHarlem crimes. The Boulevard des Capucines, Piccadilly,Unter den Linden, the Corso and a narrow street calledWall are more usual haunts of mine, offering, as they do,larger opportunities. But this side-issuance is against therules. Assume that I am fairly well acquainted with thecubbies of modern cliff-dwellers.”

“They named me ‘Grief to Men,’ yet I have not meant tobe. To explain how the cruel title came to be forced uponme, I must begin in a Harlem flat at about my nineteenthyear.”

With the tremors of a spent swimmer forced to greatereffort against the tide, Dolores breasted her tale. Throughthat evening’s recital and through those of subsequentevenings, she sought to make of herself a mere entertainer, toremember the “style” demanded, as learned from the border-lineliterature of the several tongues at her command, toconquer her reluctance and lay bare the facts which had beendeemed worthy of so much space in the newspapers ofEarth—for sake of those whom indirectly she was protecting,to tell her tale with aptitude as impersonal as thoughits subject were not herself.

Yet in the telling came moments when her continuitybroke, when her desperate attempt was abandoned in somethingmore convincing than “style.” Conquered by emotionswhich had come with her from the mortal world to thisstrange beyond—emotions of reverence, of love, of passion,of shame—she would fall silent, unable to proceed. At suchtimes her hands would shield her eyes, while the shudders ofa modest spirit would plead for reprieve; her head droopuntil her breast touched the board; her lips refuse for aspace to obey her will to divert.

Fortunately His Excellency, far from disapproving suchviolations of the rules which he had imposed, appeared toregard them as superstrokes of a talent patent from thestart. They lent to the reality of the tale, prolonged suspenseand multiplied his enjoyment in her sufferings. To him,prone to delight in the inherent worst of devils and of men,the words she could not force herself to utter often meantmore than those which had fallen from her lips.

Again, when his own impatience, increased by that of thedemon audience, stripped bare her soul and lashed her, withmalevolent threats, into renewed effort, he would chortlealoud from satisfaction in his mental degeneracy.

From his infinite fund of information regarding personsof importance whose trails had crossed the girl-soul’s own,he was able frequently to furnish facts regarding otherswhen, at times, she failed.

The earth-story of Dolores Trent, free in version andfilled in from the super-supply of Satanic intelligence,ensues.

CHAPTER III

Close to five o’clock the decrepit vehicle which, with adingy hearse, had formed the funeral cortège of TrevorTrent, creaked to a stop. The entrance to the HeartseaseApartments gaped wide, just as it had gaped a few hoursearlier when the remains of the wastrel had passed throughfor the last time. The relic of a Jehu, in crinkled topper andfaded blue livery sans buttons, lowered rheumatically fromhis seat on the box. Adjusting his soiled dickey, mainstayof a celluloid collar and green tie, he threw open the doorwith what might have been taken for extra ceremony, had henot verbally urged his passengers to hurry lest he miss thehot free-lunch which, with the weak prohibition-time “suds”that washed it down, was the most pleasureable event of hisday.

Those who alighted stood a moment in regretful silence—twotypical Harlem matrons, one with a child in arms, bothwith offspring attached like lead weights to their skirts.Between them was the girl whom they were seeing to-day,through the goggles of sensation, in the stellar rôle of chiefmourner.

“Pore thing—pore young thing!”

Their tears, more or less sincere, vied with those of thedripping heavens, although not tears for Trevor Trent.Indeed, they who had known his life for the past seventeenyears had no apologies, even to the angels, for omitting toweep over his demise. Their toil-dulled compassion wentout in this loneliest moment that succeeds a death to theorphaned daughter who, hitherto, had been a detached unitin their congested midst. A substantial escort, they usheredher up the steps, unheeding the querulous welcome of theyoung hopefuls left at home.

“Was it a long, good, joggly ride, Ma?”

“You mighta tooken us along.”

“Can I go next time anybody dies? ’Tain’t fair the babygets all the fun.”

Inside the door, the manner that belonged to an occasionwas unceremoniously doffed. Sympathy along this particularblock of the East One-Hundreds never interfered with life’spracticalities. Dolores Trent received no invitations to supwith her neighbors—expected none, since any superfluousscraps could be served very well for breakfast.

Uneasy in the emptiness of the three rooms which for solong had represented home to her, she settled at the oakdesk beside the window with intent of searching the close-printedwant columns of an evening paper. But at first shecould not see to read.

In this chair her father had struggled over the translationsfrom which their livelihood had been eked in thosebetter moments when the drug to which he was addictedwould permit him to work. That, of course, was before hehad lost the position through inaccuracies which made thefirm intolerant of trying her as substitute. In the cornerto the right squatted the couch upon which he had wastedinto that pallid, unresponsive thing so lately consigned to theground, despite her terrified efforts to stay his departureand to recall him, once he had gone. How strange, how confusingto be alone, like a flower cut from its bush andthrown to the wind! It seemed as though she, too, mustwither and die.

Over him toward the last had come a change which alreadywas dear to her memory. Always gentle with her, intermittentlyzealous in an ambition to train her mind for someworth-while future, he had become obsessed by an anxietyover her which dulled him to the crave for poppy paste,hitherto his controlling love and hate. It was something toremember that, improvident though he had been in life,paupered though he was leaving her, his distress over herfate in these last days had conquered his desire for thedrug. In the dusk, his last words seemed again to rasp inher ears.

“You have beauty and innocence, my girl. Please God agood young love may protect you on your way!”

Although her eyes burned, no tears relieved them.Although her heart near burst with longing to assure himhow, above other children, she had been grateful for hisaffection, no whisper passed her lips. She could not reachhim now. Merely pitiful was her regret over the diffidencewhich had kept her from telling him that, from her earliestunderstanding, she had recognized his right to resent her;had appreciated, on that very account, his tolerance.

But she must not regret. That would weaken her whenmost she needed strength. Had she not done the best shecould? In her life-long defense of his habit, in the protectorateover him which had been her chief concern fromchildhood to this early maturity, had she not shown him thatshe worshiped him for forgiving the crime she had committedin being born—in making that brutal exaction of a life for alife?

The poppy paste she never had criticized, realizing that ithad entered his life at the beginning of her own, when theyoung mother who had died to give her birth lay stark, forthe first time unresponsive to his adoration. On that firstnight of her existence, as often he had told her, he hadchosen her name as a sort of epitaph. Grief.... Grief....That was what she had meant to him.

His improvidence she could not contemn, remembering thebrilliant career which, before her advent, had appeared to beopening before him. Despite her lonely childhood, despitethe endurance which had filled her time in lieu of laughterand play, she was glad now that always she had known.With the full hurt of her heart she hoped that, if he had notunderstood in life, he knew to-night that always—always—shehad known.

Darkness had taken possession of the room.

A thought that darkness possessed her prospects alsocaused her to light the gas. She must not stumble intothe future. She must cease looking backward; must turnand face forward. Determinedly she settled to the “HelpWanted” columns, a hopeful array.

However, as she read through one after another of theadvertisem*nts, down one column and up the next, the confidenceinspired by their numbers decreased. She had notexpected at once to sight an opportunity in which she mightutilize the somewhat haphazard learning with which she wasequipped. But she had hoped for something—something shecould do.

And then:

WANTED—Pretty, young girl of innocent type.No experience necessary. Good pay to right person.Apply Wednesday, 10:30 A.M., to VincentSeff, —— Fifth Avenue.

In small type, with the reserve of opportunity, it stoodout from the rest. Dolores re-read it. “No experiencenecessary.” That was the kindest thing said to her sincethe cry of her father’s late-born anxiety: “You have beautyand innocence, my girl.” The advertisem*nt seemed addressedto her.

As if in period to or amusem*nt over her conclusions,there sounded a gurgle from the gas meter. The vaporflickered; sputtered; went out. Funerals, even in the EastOne-Hundreds, are expensive. And the slot of the meternever would have mistaken the single five cent piece remainingin her purse for the quarter that was its exaction. Indarkness Dolores retired.

As she lay in her narrow white-iron bed, she saw in thegloom, even more clearly than under the jet, that the want-adwas meant for her. The signature had possessed, from firstglance, a familiar look. Vincent Seff ... Vincent Seff....Could she have heard that name before?

With the first ray of gratuitous daylight, recognitionflooded her mind. Of course. Why shouldn’t it lookfamiliar, that name? Often had she glanced at it whenwaiting around the corner to safeguard her father homefrom the publishing house. In letters of brass, hammeredinto an ebony plate, it identified the most alluring windowsalong that highway of lures:

VINCENT SEFF
LINGERIE

So there was work to be had at “good pay” handlingthose costly, cobwebby under-garments which she, althoughwidely separated from them by circ*mstances, had pausedpassionately to admire. So the proprietor of that house ofdear delights he was who wished to employ her, “withoutexperience,” if only she proved pretty and innocent enough!

Even after dawn “10:30 A. M.” seemed far distant. Butthere was much to do toward vacating the flat. Already thelandlord had given her grace of three days and the newtenants were “moving in.” Everything of value had gone tothe pawnbroker over on Lenox Avenue. The remnant offurniture would be called for during the forenoon by thejunk man who had advanced her money for the funeral.

The Trevor Trent alligator suit-case, its original claimsto distinction contested by the years, she had retained forher wardrobe and keepsakes. This, when packed, she carriedacross the hall and left, “to be called for,” with one ofyesterday’s emergency mourners. After neatly sweeping thefloors as a wordless return for the un-landlordly lenienceshown her, she stood for one last moment on the thresholdof the living-room. Although no sound escaped her, thererose from heart to quivering lips the wail of the younganimal bereft at once of parent and home.

Down at the corner a subway entrance suggested. Theestate of Trevor Trent was closed, his last obligation honorablymet. In the purse of his sole heir lay her legacy,enough to carry her swiftly and at ease to the neighbor-hoodof her promised employment—promised to her byVincent Seff. She took out the lone coin and started for theentrance.

An old friend, the Italian fruiterer, who yesterday hadeyed her with the impressionability of his race, stopped herto press into her hand a luscious-looking, out-of-season nectarine.Dolores tried to thank him, but choked on the words.She decided to walk downtown. Without a clink, hernickel slid into the coin-box at the corner of his cart, as iffearful of being considered payment for this and other ofhis kindnesses since her little girlhood. Dolores, too, wasfearful. She hoped the flush on her wontedly pale facehadn’t made him suspect. At the corner she glanced back.The old friend waved to her. Happily he had not heard;had not seen.

Ten-fifteen.

Somewhat winded, she hurried her already stiff pace atthe warning of the church-tower clock on the cross-streetjust above the lingerie establishment. The outer doors werewide open and through the inner ones of plate glass shecould see gracefully dressed women clerks shaking out andarranging their flimsy wares with a nice regard for effect.As yet there looked to be no customers. But then, asDolores reminded herself, Vincent Seff’s was an ultra-fashionableshop. The fine ladies destined to wear his creationsscarcely would be stirring beneath their satin and eider-downat ten-fifteen A. M.

She was there. But even Father Time could not bully herinto entering at once. She found herself palpitating withthe uneasiness of one who, for the first time, offers herservices for wage. Three times she approached the doorbefore her courage bore her through.

Down the aisle a fashion-plate of a man stepped out tomeet her.

“May I direct mam’selle?”—he, in unctuous voice.

On realizing that she had been taken for a customer,Dolores’ spirits lifted. She glanced hopefully down at herthreadbare blue serge suit. That daybreak pressing musthave rejuvenated it more than she had thought.

“I came in answer to this.” She produced the want-ad.

Insult was added to the floor-walker’s obvious sense ofinjury when a woman clerk, elaborately coiffed, made commentfrom the nearest counter:

“You might have guessed her as the one last victim forJuke Seff’s slaughter of innocents.”

His face twisted in the very process of smiling. However,he managed—and just in time—to frown.

“One flight up,” he said curtly to Dolores. “Turn to theright and——”

“To the wrong, deary,” corrected the coiffed clerk. “Thengo away, ’way back and down, down, down.”

Following directions, Dolores found herself in a largeroom which appeared to be a modified sort of office, furnishedin gray wicker, with hangings of gray and purplechintz. As every chair and settee was occupied, she backedto the wall near the door. Surprised to see how many applicantshad preceded her, she began to make comparisons.

Every shade of complexion, from ash blond to raven-brunette,was represented. Glancing among them, she mighthave envied some their loveliness and fashionable clothes,had she not so sincerely admired them. Like a flower gardenthe aggregation looked and smelled, every girl contributingher favorite color and perfume of sachet or extract to thesteam-heated air.

With all her appreciation, Dolores’ heart grew heavy. Gonewas her hope in the quiet distinction of her felt sailor hat,gone her assurance that the advertisem*nt was the sign-boardof Fate. Closer to the wall she shrank when, at preciselyhalf-after-ten, Vincent Seff entered the room.

CHAPTER IV

There was no mistaking him. None less than the ownerof the shop would enter with that assured step, and glanceamong them with that odd mixture of aesthetic distaste, yetbusiness interest. His manner announced that they were“goods” to him.

Seff was a man of certain attractions, somewhere in thelater thirties. Clothed in semi-belted homespun, his lineswere so defined as to suggest stays beneath. He was ofmedium height, clean-shaved and almost pallid of face. Hisbrown hair he wore somewhat tousled, probably to hide itsscantiness over the crown.

By the time he had reached the center of the room, thegirls had straightened and begun to smile and chatter—all,perhaps, except Dolores Trent. She watched him with thedetached interest of her dead hope.

Halting, he threw up his delicate hands in an affectationof bewilderment.

“Oh, my dears!” he exclaimed, but in a voice lackinganimation. “I shouldn’t have believed there was so muchinnocence in Gotham. Really, I am all but overcome.”

Despite the assertion, his eyes swept this corner and that.

“Would that I needed an army of innocents instead ofthe one superlative!” He stepped to the open door on theright. “Mrs. Hutton!” There was a click in his voice.

“Kindly be my board of elimination, Mary,” he instructedthe handsome, white-haired woman who responded. “Thisgalaxy of guilelessness is too much for little Vin. My allegeddiscrimination is blinded, my business shrewdness reels, mysenses—— Yes, yes, I know that the lord of lingerieshouldn’t have ’em, senses. But what can a mere man do?”He laid one arm about her shoulders and leaned against her,as if for support.

“Merer than man,” she said and, as though from dislike,shrugged him off.

“Jealous again, dear heart?”

Although he had smiled with the question, her answermade him flush.

“A sensible woman isn’t jealous of a thought.”

“Be good enough, by processes of detection best knownto your sex,” he instructed her more briskly, “to reduce thisbevy to five of the most natural. I’ll see them in the studio.”

Something additional he murmured into her ear.

She returned him a strange look.

“In twenty minutes I’ll show in the five,” said she competently.

The shop-man addressed the array of applicants. “Youwill understand, young and pretty creatures, that refusalimplies no aspersion, either upon your looks or, shall I say,your artful effect of artlessness. Unfortunately the houseof Seff can utilize but one of you and stern business commandsthe selection of her best suited to our particular needs.Thanks for the sight of each and all.”

With a winning smile, generally distributed, he bowed low,backed to the chintz-curtained doorway through which hehad entered and disappeared into what, evidently, was thestudio.

Not once had his glance paused in the vicinity of DoloresTrent. She, in complete reversal of last night’s concept ofa Fate especially interested in herself, lingered only to watchproceedings.

The softer lines which had made Mrs. Hutton’s faceattractive disappeared with her employer. Sentiment evidentlywas to have no place in these “processes of detectionbest known to her sex.” She formed the seventy-odd applicantsin lines, before which she walked, looking each closelyin the face.

“Girls wearing rouge to this side of the room.”

No one moved. With women’s headiest hope, each evidentlyrelied upon the artistry of her make-up.

Mary Hutton again started along the lines. Authoritativelyshe tapped this rose-blush blond and that brilliantbrunette.

To one who protested that she would not know how torouge: “You don’t need to tell me, my dear, anything self-evident.You shouldn’t put so much in the center of yourcheeks. Natural color spreads. That’s the first lesson I giveour sales-girls. Start with a dab on the chin, next a suggestionon your forehead between the eyes, then quite a biton the lobes of the ears, where all color starts. Only withthese high spots tinted to guide you can you hope for anatural effect. When you’re going out, ask for my booklet,‘If You Must Rouge, Rouge Right.’ They’ll give you a copyfree. Now, please, girls over twenty, fall out!”

Again hesitation, reproaches and complaints were metwith uncompromising firmness.

Dolores never understood how it happened, for long sinceshe had given up. She made no plea to Mrs. Hutton, nor didMrs. Hutton say anything in particular to her. In fact, ifthe forewoman showed any notice of her other than of anautomaton, it looked to be dislike, not approval. Yet, at thelast, after the most impersonal of appraisals, she found herselfamong the fittest five. As one, they were waved betweenthe curtains of gray and lavender chintz.

The “studio” might have been milady’s boudoir. Of violetvelvet were the carpets and hangings. The spindly Hepplewhitefurniture wore modulated tapestry. There was bric-a-bracscattered about. On the walls hung etchings.

Vincent Seff had removed his homespun coat for a smokingjacket of embroidered lavender silk, with which the moredelicate tone of his shirt and tie blended satisfyingly. Hedid not rise as they entered; indeed, did not glance up forseveral minutes afterward. He was lolling upon a chaiselounge, at work over a drawing—some garment design, presumedly,as he kept glancing at a rack beside him over whichhung several strips of sheer, vari-tinted fabrics.

With a sigh of reluctance he laid down the drawing-board,selected a cigarette from a gold cigarette case and leisurelylighted it. Only after several deep inhalations did he yieldhis attention to the nervous bevy ranged before him. Pleasurecovered the regret on his face as he surveyed them. Hesat straight; studied them one by one.

“This is cruel—the most exquisite cruelty!” Aloud cameexclamation at last.

He reconsidered the stuffs on the rack. Leaning over, hetouched them.

“Beautiful, aren’t they? Surely the possession and feelof such things should be enough—enough.”

His gaze, again shifting, fixed upon the pansy eyes of asilver blonde whom, from the first, Dolores had admiredmost.

“Come closer, Dresden shepardess,” he invited.

It was all over, settled, Dolores thought. Those defeatedshould be the last to deny the petite creature’s claim to election,so soft were the curves of her figure, so alluring hertints of white, pink, blue and palest gold.

“Sorry to seem to disparage you, who deserve a kinderfate,” Seff was saying. “You can see at a glance that yourcomplexion and hair are too indefinite to make for contrastwith these crêpes. Perhaps one day, for some other purpose——”

His voice ebbed as does an outgoing tide. His attentionveered to the girl next in line, the most striking of thenatural brunettes from the outer room.

“My, my, but you are a luscious thing—a lovely, lusciousthing!” Seff’s delicate finger-tips touched together sensitively.“I wish you to understand that, personally,I like you red-blooded, dark ones—prefer you, in fact. Butyou are too colorful for our present need. You’d make thisflesh pink look ashen. Awfully sorry, my dear. A thousandthanks for the look at you. As for you, lithe gazelle——”

The manner of his preface somehow foretold the fate ofthe tall, willowy girl with nut-brown hair, fleeting flushesand eyes like limpid pools, whom he next considered.

Dolores’ heart ached for the three thus gently dismissed.She knew just how they felt. She would be the fourth togo. Certainly, if they could not qualify, she should not feeldisappointment or offense. Except that her situation was sodesperate——

“Go over to my friend Feldtbaum,” Seff continued. “Seeif he can’t find a place for you in one of his roof shows. Hewants just the effect of spotless virtue which you give out—likesit for punch. Somehow, for my purpose, you overlookthe part. And the next girl—she won’t do at all.”

His voice had sharpened.

Dolores almost leapt from the group, both hands hardpressed against her heart to still its beat.

“Not you,” said the artist-merchant. “I’m speaking to thefourth of you. Pretty face, young, innocent enough, but toomuch bust—more like a matron. What I want to-day is—howshall I express it?—the spirit of modest allurement.You understand, each of you four, why you won’t do? I amso sorry. I sincerely thank you. Good morning.”

Dazed was she who watched them go. Her one definitethought was of the gas meter. How had it known when toclick off last night—how been even more sure than she thatthe advertisem*nt had been written for her?

“What am I to call you?” asked Vincent Seff when theywere alone.

“Dolores Trent is my name, sir.”

“Dolores? A sad little name. And you look to be a sadlittle dame, sad and mysterious. That’s what gets me and allthe rest—mystery. Tell me—” his eyes lifted quizzically—“wasit your own idea to carry that symbol?”

“You mean this—this nectarine? An old friend gave itto me as I was leaving home.”

Dolores realized with negligent surprise that the fruiterer’sgood-by gift was still clasped in one of her hands.

“A real nectarine, is it? I supposed it was artificial—meantto be sort of emblematic—smooth, cool, not overlyripe, yet with suggestions of pungency like, for instance,yourself. That was too much to expect, eh?”

“Yes, sir, it was,” she admitted.

He continued to look at her. “Since you don’t claimsubtlety, perhaps I’d better confess that you were selectedbefore I went into the outer room. I looked over the flockthrough the curtain.”

“You—you did?”

“Yes, and advised Mrs. Hutton not to overlook you.”

“Then why——”

“Why didn’t I put the rest out of their misery at once?Because I am said to be kind-hearted. The name of beingkind-hearted saves me money in getting employees. Then,too, my business has taught me to flatter all women, ratherthan offend them. Do you mind taking off your jacket,Dolores?”

She answered by compliance.

Seff arose and stood a moment, stooping to peer into herface. One hand he clasped around her right forearm andslid it up to her shoulder, evidently measuring its proportions.Then he tried the firmness of her busts.

Dolores did not like this, although she did not say so. Sheswallowed against a pressure in her throat and longed forher father as she had not longed hitherto. For the first timeshe lifted her eyes to his.

He flushed; in another moment removed his hands. Heshowed, however, to be pleased, that, from the eyes of theapplicant, had looked the attribute which was the chiefstipulation of his advertisem*nt.

“You are not developed as you might be, but you may dobetter on that very account,” he said, his manner professional.“There’s a reason. I am sure we shall be goodfriends.”

“I hope that I’ll be able to suit you.”

“No doubt of that.”

“I—I mean that I shall be able to do the work.”

“No doubt of that,” he repeated.

After helping her back into the serge coat, he stood off ingeneral contemplation of her, a pucker between his brows.

“Now, I don’t wish to hurt your feelings, Dolores, butyou’ll have to dress better right from the start. You don’tcare if I get down to business? Your salary will be twenty-fivedollars a week for the present. Later, if you fulfill myexpectations and don’t dun me, I’ll probably raise it. I amgoing to pay you a week in advance and make you anexpense allowance of one hundred dollars. I of course payfor extra clothes I order. I want you to go out and maketwo purchases—first, one full-sized lunch, of which you lookin need; second, a new outfit. I shall not dictate that yoursuit be gray, the color we affect in the store. But I advisethat it be quite plain, something along the lines of what youhave on, only of better material. Don’t scrimp in the quality,will you?”

“I won’t,” she promised.

Drawing a leather folder from his breast pocket, Seffsorted out six twenties and one five-dollar bill and handedthem to her.

Dolores took them, not knowing what to say. One hundredand twenty-five dollars!

“You see that I trust you. Take the rest of to-day andthe early part of to-morrow to get yourself togged out,” hefurther advised. “You may report to me here around noon-time.I’ll explain then what your duties will be. Everythingsatisfactory?”

“I wish I could thank you,” Dolores murmured, as shestood waiting for him to turn the knob of the door.

“You can,” he said in his crisp way. “Give me the symbol.”

“The—this nectarine?”

“Yes. I want to sip it.”

She glanced up to see if he could be joking. But evidentlyhe was not. His eyes met hers, blue and serious asa child’s. Yet she felt vaguely disturbed to notice that, as helooked, the tip of his tongue appeared from between histeeth and wiped both lips.

At once she gave him the nectarine. She was glad—sovery glad—that she had something he wanted to give him.She told him so.

“You are, eh?”

He said no more to her by way of thanks. But shecaught several words of what he added, as if to himself:

“Sight, touch, the thought of taste. All—that is all.”

He did not answer when she told him good-by. With anabsorbed look he was turning the nectarine about in hisfinger-tips. He seemed in no hurry to bite into it.

To the best of her judgment, Dolores followed the instructionsof her first employer. She changed the five-dollar billin the purchase of luncheon, for she was, indeed, very hungry.Even the reminder that she now must eat all her mealsalone, did not dull the edge of her appetite. It did, however,decide that the color of her new suit should be black—theonly sign she might make of the desolation in her heart.Mr. Seff might not like it. Still he had said that he was“kind-hearted.” He would condone when he understood.It should have the “quality” which had been his one proviso—allthe quality she could pay for after she had deducted aweek’s room-rent in advance and a sufficient sum for foodand incidentals.

The room she sought first as the less particular purchaseand found easily—a clean hall bedroom in the “refinedadult” district of the middle West Forties. The lesserdetails of her “outfit”—a small hat, gloves, stockings andshoes—she acquired one by one. The suit she did not decideupon until ten o’clock the next morning when, conscious ofthe clock hands and the obligations of good taste thrust uponher, she exchanged her full residue for a tailor-made Duvetyn,reduced, according to hearsay in the sample shop,because of its “trying simplicity.” Holding her own opinionsuperior to the many other ambitious things which the sales-womansaid about it, Dolores honestly felt that it was a suitwhose distinction of cut might offset, in Mr. Seff’s opinion,its somber hue.

Attired in its unpretentious luxury, her hair done low onher neck, as her father had liked it best, beneath her newtoque, she reported at eleven o’clock in the studio.

At this point in the girl-shade’s recital, it was that she toreher eyes from the expectant smile of Satan the First andLast; covered her face from the hot gaze of others of herdemon audience; allowed her sprightly utterance to lapseinto shuddered lament.

“Oh, if I had known, if I had dreamed what I had beenpaid-in-advance to do! If I could have understood in timethe stare of the floor-walker or the clerk’s reference to ‘theJuke’s slaughter of innocents’! But the hundred dollarswas spent and he showed only surprise at my dismay. Ibegged him to let me work out the money in some otherdepartment of the store. But he said that even scrubbingrequired experience. He had nothing else for a girl withoutreferences to do.”

The King scowled. “You really have diverted me so far,but your narrative style has slumped. It is an old trick,fair fiend, that of pricking up the interest with exclamationpoints.”

“Hasn’t even a damned woman a right to some sacredfeelings?” Sin interposed.

“Even so, this is no confessional and I am no priest.Queer my attention never was called to this lingerie lord.He seems to be one of my own sort.”

As Dolores forced herself again to look at His Majesty,she appreciated why his habit of wiping both lips with thetip of his tongue had seemed odiously familiar.

“Have we no film in the Picture Storage Houses of themachinations of one Vincent Seff?” With a threat in hisvoice, Satan turned on the prime minister.

Sin met the implication with bravado. “Seff is only ashopkeeper, Your Highness, a corking bad fellow, I know,but not of especial importance. Our storage space is overcrowdednow with films of far worse than he.”

Satan’s frown blackened. “He sounds promising to me.Should our Old Original be found guilty of another crimeof omission—— However, we are to hear more of Seff andyour maiden effort, are we not, sweet Grief? Pray proceed,cutting out those alack-and-alas passages. We shall assumethat you were as innocent as your employer’s requirement athigh noon of that fatal day. It is a reasonable assumptionthat everybody is innocent in life’s A. M., eh? At times Itake to pitying even myself for my state of innocuous naughtinessbefore that little set-to with the Great-I-Am. Comenow, the tale—and see you give us the worst of it!”

CHAPTER V

From facts later learned, Dolores was able at this pointto shift the viewpoint of her earth story from performer toaudience. The incidents of that first morning’s payment inservice of her financial debt she presented through the eyesof John Calvin Cabot, sole scion of a seventh generation ofNew Yorkers and a financier who, through his inherentaversion to idleness, was rated many times a millionaire.

The Cabots were late motoring down town, having beendetained at their upper Fifth Avenue home by a domesticcontretemps. The distress of it still hardened the lines ofthe man’s somewhat grim-featured face. Through thedownward rush of many blocks, he pondered the first personalfavor he had considered asking his wife in years.

“Catherine,” he said at last, “I wish you’d come with meto some toy shop and help in the selection.”

Catherine Cabot glanced into the limousine mirror, hungnear the vase of her favorite yellow orchids, “to double,” asshe put it, their beauty. She looked a good deal like theorchids, golden-haired, delicate of outline, fragile of texture,flower-eyed. John glanced into the mirror, too, rather thanstraight at her. During their ten years together he had cometo prefer the reflection of his wife to the original. It wassofter.

“My day is so full. John, you order any toys you like.Have them sent by special messenger.”

“You don’t get my idea, Catherine. Jack would betouched and perhaps punished more than in any other wayfor his outbreak this morning, if you selected a birthdaypresent for him yourself.”

“Can’t you tell him that I did, anyhow?”

“I could, yes. But I won’t. I expected you’d suggestthat lie.”

“John! I sometimes think Jackie inherited his viciousnessstraight from you.”

A moment the man considered this effective, if unconvincingreproach of the mother of his only child.

“I wish you could feel some of my indignation over thatstatement,” he made quiet comment. “Now and then youhave caprices for the most unique frankness I ever havenoticed in a woman. Tell me, do you have no yearningswhatever over our unfortunate boy?”

She looked interested, as if at a compliment.

“I pride myself on my frankness. Of course any womanhas a natural affection for her own child. But, as you know,I am a beauty lover. It is not my fault that I can’t loveJack as I should if he looked like me, or even you.”

“Perhaps, Catherine, he inherited something from you.Perhaps he also is a beauty lover. Should you consider thesuggestion that the ‘viciousness’ you accredit to me may bein him an extreme case of nerves—of a suffering over hisdeformity older than you’d expect at eight years?”

She was thumbing the pages of her morocco-boundengagement book and omitted to reply.

With a sadness too complete for contempt, he added:“You often have wondered where Jack’s ugliness comesfrom. I’ll tell you—from the ill-favored spirit of ourmarriage.”

Catherine looked startled. Then she looked indignant.After that, with a sigh of long-sufferance, she looked verysweet.

In a voice gentle as his had been—“Since you take myrefusal so hard as to resort to your semi-occasional maritalrecriminations, dear John, I’ll yield. I will go with you tothe toy-shop, although probably I’ll have to break a luncheonengagement in consequence. You can’t ever say that I amunwilling to do my part. Just a minute until I see what Ihave on to-day.”

Soon and coaxingly she glanced up at him. Her upperlip shortened over mouse-like teeth which gleamed, sharpand white, between their crimson guards. Even with thehusband who claimed to know her, Catherine never waschary of her ingenuous, confiding smiles.

“It’s your turn to make a concession. On our way to thetoy-shop, stop in with me at a showing of underwear atSeff’s. It lasts only from twelve to one and I’ll miss it if I gofurther down town. Even puritanical you may be amused.Seff is rather sensational in his advertising, but he does importlovely things. Here is the invitation for the latest of hisshows. Do you mind?”

She handed him a card, engraved and dictioned in the verybest form. She looked rather pleased than otherwise at themanner of her husband’s consent.

“How like you, Catherine, to make your concessionsC. O. D.! For Jack’s sake, I shall try not to ‘mind.’”

A flutter of interest greeted the Cabot’s appearance on thetop floor of the lingerie establishment, for no more discussedpair trod the made-up scenery of the ways andby-ways of Gotham’s rich.

Catherine, despite the irregularity of that short upper lipand the tortured, metallic brilliancy of the yellow of herhair and the demand for public notice made by her clothes,often was pronounced the most beautiful matron “amongthose present”; at least, always was conspicuous. To-dayher perquisitory air of excelling even her splendid minkcoat won her distinction in the fashionable gathering of manywomen and a few men.

John—as his wife was given to explaining—she had marriedfor his looks. She called him the “handsomest unhandsomeman” she knew. Tall, clean-shaved, black-haired, withdark eyes of a singular intensity, he wore a manner as unpretentiousas his clothes. This was heightened to-day by an airof detachment from the enforced situation.

Above greetings and introductions, tintillated commentover the setting of Seff’s top floor. Arranged as a miniatureauditorium, its rows of ashwood chairs faced a small stage,equipped with footlights. Wrought on the gray velvet curtainthat concealed the exact nature of this adventure inadvertising was the title—

THE LITTLE OLD LADY OF LORRAINE

At the twelfth chime of a concealed clock, an orchestralwhisper of the Marseillaise caused the audience, creaturesof habit, to seek their places. John Cabot, although offendedas always by the commercialization of patriotism in cafésand music halls and the like, stood in front of the prominentchairs to which an usher had led his wife and himself.Those about him also stood, if with treasonable sighs;as the music died away relievedly sank into their chairs.

The curtain parted. Vincent Seff appeared and lifted theright of his artistic hands.

“Patrons—may I say friends?” he began when their mannerlypalm-patting had ceased.

The silence of curiosity greeted his hesitant, yet pleasantlydelivered announcement. Only Mrs. Hutton understoodhis need of courage, his desire for pseudo-sincerity.Virulently though she appeared to condemn him, she evidentlywished him to succeed in this, his monster imposition.She had poured the stiff drink which lubricated his voice tothat especial smoothness. She stood in the improvised wings,an expression which would have defied a mental analysthardening her face, as she listened to the delivery of the briefspeech which she had helped him prepare.

“Always have we admired the lingerie from Lorraine,you and I. But how many of you have stopped to wonderwhose hands are responsible for its textile exquisiteness, itschic and the needlework that makes it more lovely than anyother in the world? With the many changes which war haswrought, came the fear that our American fair would bereduced to less attractive underwear. Imagine, then, myjoy when there arrived recently, unsolicited and in trust, ashipment from my little old lady of Lorraine.”

The speaker smiled upon the interested faces below inhumid, self-deprecatory appeal.

“The pluck as well as the embroidery of this maker was,all through the war, a marvel to the trade. For weeks herhome was under enemy fire and the grand dame herself inconstant danger of her devoted life. But alone in her cellarworkshop she plied her needle as industriously as the Bocheslaid down their shells. Such heroism swells the heart andchokes the voice.”

After a brief substantiating pause, the shopman continued,as if glorying in his show of emotion.

“Why did she do it? Not for herself, surely, since thevalue of her work would have counted little against the lossof her life. Patrons—friends—she did it for France. Everymite that she earned was tossed into the coffers of hercountry. And now that the reconstruction period is on, shestill finds work for her withered hands to do—still not forherself—but for the war orphans of the French. Every centwhich this shipment yields will be spent on children whomthe great struggle has deprived of their natural protectors.Not even a commission will be subtracted. No price hasbeen set upon the things which I am about to show you. Ifeel that they are priceless. In the name of that little old ladyof Lorraine I shall give them to you for what you offer andhave no fear for the net results. To show them from boxeson my counters—the mere thought has seemed unworthy thetrust placed in me. Will you try to like the more uniquemethod which I have devised?”

Bowing deeply and repeatedly in response to perfunctoryapplause, Vincent Seff backed from view. Orchestral whispersof the Marche Lorraine accompanied a flurry of exclamation.The gray velvet curtain parted; lifted.

The set was a bedchamber. Through a half-open doorshowed the suggestion of a tiled bathroom. Another doorand the two windows were closed. Once the eyes becameaccustomed to the indeterminate light, they made out rarehangings and furniture that looked to wear the stamp ofLouis XIV. Beneath the satin coverlet of the bed, anelongated lump suggested a human figure asleep. Uponone pillow a lace cap indicated rather than covered a mass ofmurky hair.

For minutes the orchestral rendition of Schumann’sTraumerei was the only action of the piece. In time thepantomime of a morning’s awakening began—a shudder ofthe coverlet, a stretching of legs beneath and rounded armsabove. The face which uplifted from its background oflocks and lace suggested a loathful emergence from dreams.With some degree of energy a hand reached out and presseda bell. That accomplished, the luxurious sleeper slippedbeneath the eider-down and again drowsed off.

The entrance of a soft-treading, black-garbed, middle-agedmaid brought diversion. Her lips moved in a supposedgood-morning. She drew up the window blinds, floodingthe room with light. Her disappearance into the bathroomwas followed by the plash of water in a tub.

Her simulation of annoyance on returning to the bedside,to find the dreamer reclaimed, was a nice histrionic bit. Shereminded; urged; finally shook. At last the lady of lethargy,smiling deliciously, aroused to a sitting posture. The throwncoverlet bared two rosy feet for the enclosure of satinmules. She deserted the nest of the night, crossed the roomfront stage and stood with arms uplifted as an aid to heryawns.

The spotlight found her some seconds before the maidcould throw over her a bathrobe of silk so pliant that it mighthave been drawn through a bracelet.

Inhalations and forward-leanings moved the audience.

Indeed, there was cause for comment. The daring of Seffin his presentation, the novelty of the crêpe sleeping-gownwhich, innocent of filet or ribbons, depended solely upon itsEmpire lines and girdling silken cord—even the type of themodel was rare.

Pretty of face beyond question, with a luminous sort ofpallor, red lips delicately full and purplish, child-wide eyes,she stood revealing through the sheer a body both slenderand rounded. Discussions of her as frank as they were low-pitchedproved that the pantomime was “taking” from thestart.

John Cabot was of the few who suppressed remark, butnone watching him could have doubted his interest.

Catherine curved an amused smile at him.

“Et tu, Brute,” she murmured.

At first from natural endowment and later from deliberateeffort, John always had believed in the virtue of women untilcompelled to disbelieve. To-day he was studying neither theexquisite, hand-stitched garment nor the “points” of themanikin who wore it.

Had he really seen lines of suffering at the corners of thatsmiling mouth? Had he imagined a look of distress ineyes which momentarily had met, but now evaded his? Hewas no sentimentalist. Yet he wondered.

Vincent Seff, from a chair at the far right of the first row,looked entertained by his own entertainment. He satslouched forward, knees crossed, elbow on them, chin inpalm, eyes up-gazing. A flush was on his rather anaemicskin. Occasionally his cheeks twitched in an odd, carefullycontrolled smirk. He nodded, now and then, as if wellpleased.

John, glancing toward the shopman, saw the tip of histongue appear and wipe both lips. About Seff, too, hewondered.

From the wings, Mrs. Hutton watched all—the play, the“house,” the man who had conceived and perpetrated thecoup and the newspaper reporters upon whom he dependedto give it city-wide circulation. She, however, did notwonder about Seff. Only too well she understood why hewas off guard at the moment, showing tendencies which,ordinarily, his policy would have concealed.

She did not wonder, no. But she feared for him as muchas, with a reaction that crushed the fear, she hotly, contemptuouslyresented him. As she studied the look fixedupon the girl whom he had chosen at first glance from a roomfull of attractive applicants, almost did she hate him. Thechains of the hideous relationship which shackled togetherhim and her seemed to clank as she turned from his unconsciouspantomime to that which he had foreplanned.

The playlet proceeded.

The model trailed her bath robe to the door of the tiledroom, there to throw it off and disappear within. Presumedlyshe plunged into her tub. At any rate, her nextappearance, although fleeting, enhanced that impression.Just a glimpse of her was caught, as the maid pushed widerthe door to supply a bath towel, but a glimpse that broughtgasps from the audience sharp as though they, too, had takena cold plunge.

With hair twisted in a Grecian knot atop her head, sheshowed for the brief moment before the door was closed,garbed only in the flimsiest of silken undervests. By comparisonshe looked amply clad when, some seconds later, shereëntered the bedroom, stockinged, slippered and girdled, herouter garment a confection of the chemise persuasion whichlaid claim to modesty only in its blush hue. The length lackof this costume was remedied by the maid. After a chasewhose obvious object was further to show the cut andtexture of the display, the woman succeeded in noosing thehead of her charge with a hemstitched petticoat.

Upon the door sounded a knock of that portentiousnessmet only on the stage. In effective dismay, the manikinpaused front stage, the spotlight obligingly following herexample. The maid, moved by belated prudery, scurried toa closet, from which, after a search whose duration wouldnot have recommended her either for system or dispatch,she emerged with a negligee that matched the morningset. This she draped about her young mistress and stoodoff to admire with a deliberation accented by repetitions ofthe portentious knock.

When the door at last was opened, expectation of theunusual was gainsaid by the man-servant who laid severalribbon-bedizened boxes upon the couch and departed. Mistressand maid became animated by curiosity. The parcelswere undone and their contents examined—a dozen sets oflingerie only less lovely than the one worn by the model inthat they were less attractively displayed.

These still lay about the room on chairs, tables and bedwhen, at entertainment’s end, Vincent Seff himself appearedbefore the footlights. His face was noticeably flushed, hisvoice thicker than before in his invitation that all ascendthe stage and personally inspect the shipment from Lorraine.

If applause meant appreciation, he must have been gratified.And, in fact, the tribute was sincere. The hour’s advertisingwhimsy had been amusing and artistic. Commendatorychatter lifted as the spectators disturbed their chairs.

John Cabot was preoccupied by an analysis of the lookseen on the face of the master of ceremonies, a look whichhad intensified as Seff studied, not so much the piece as thestar. Since a certain incidental which the financier hadnoticed, the elaborate exhibition had become offensive to him.

In the manikin’s small tussle over the adjustment of herpetticoat, just when she had been laughing with most abandon,two somethings—gleaming, small yet large in suggestion—haddropped from her eyes and been absorbed by thecrêpe.

That she could weep for shame, while successfully playingher frolicsome part, meant a great deal. Many younggirls might have wept before entering upon such a career.Most could be imagined as weeping afterward. But torealize and suffer enough for tears in what evidently wasan initial step—Although Catherine often had told Johnthat he was losing his sense of humor, nobody could havedeclared him deficient in vision.

He was recalled to the immediate present by the liftedvoice of his wife addressing Seff.

“I will give five hundred dollars,” she was saying, “for theset shown on the model. The things are exquisite and thecharity deserves response.”

“My dear Mrs. Cabot!” The shopman over-accented thatfamiliarity which the lofty seem so to appreciate from traffic-policemen,waiters, hotel clerks and the like. “The identicalset is yours. I thank you from my heart and from the heartsof those orphans of France.”

“I’ll take them with me,” stipulated Catherine. “Have thebox put in my car, please. And, Seff, I am in something ofa hurry.”

The crispness of her conclusion was like frost on a sunlitwindow pane. The merchant showed himself nipped by it.

“I’ll attend to your order at once, Mrs. Cabot.”

Disregarding the importunities of less prominent would-bepurchasers, he hurried back to the stage.

“Mary—Mary!” His voice was pitched several notesabove its wonted mellifluence.

Mrs. Hutton appeared.

“Take charge out here, Mary,” he directed. “Have theladies step up and examine the lot. Every garment has theinimitable chic attained only by the French, and the sizesvary, so that—— You know, Mary. Take anything that isoffered. Such patrons aren’t going to fail our lady ofLorraine.”

Far too elated was he to notice the composite of his chiefaide’s expression as she observed his uneven manner, hisflushed face and the glitter of his eyes. In the same thought,she sneered, pitied and suspected. She turned to attend thegathering patrons.

Seff had not noticed, but another had. John Cabot hadfollowed to the stage and now stood contemplating the closeddoor that gave upon the suppositious bathroom. Throughit the shopman had disappeared. A mental reminder thatthe whole circ*mstance was doubtless gross chicanery and,at the worst, none of his affair, seemed somehow dampenedby his memory of those two small, enlightening somethingswhich he had seen drip from the eyes of a laughing girl.From within he could hear fragments in Seff’s thick tones.

“A hit.... Five hundred for the set you adorn....Let me help, you dream.... No time—she’s in a hurry....I will.... Hush, dear heart, they’ll hear you.”

Ensued a duet of his chuckles and gasped protests in asofter voice. The end unmistakably was a scuffle.

John turned away, disagreeably impressed. Many of thefashionables had ascended the stage, where Mrs. Hutton wasoffering the Seff confections for sale. He advised himselfthat he must be imagining the alert turn of the forewoman’shead toward the closed door and the annoyance that falsifiedher smile. Then he flouted the advice. He didn’t imagine—hesaw. The woman was alert and annoyed.

The conclusion was substantiated. Sounds that mighthave been laughter or sobs percolated through the key-hole.Rasped gutterals interrupted, plead, threatened. There followeda rushing sound and a thump against the inside of thedoor.

John recrossed the stage. As he hesitated, he saw Mrs.Hutton drop the garment under discussion and approachhim.

Next moment a scream rent all uncertainty.

The most cynical scarcely could have mistaken the cryfor anything but one of terror, even without the words—intense,jumbled, regardless—that translated it.

“No.... No.... I hate you.... Father, help me—saveme!”

Before Mrs. Hutton could force the resisting handle ofthe door, John Cabot had put his shoulder against the paneland broken the lock.

CHAPTER VI

The scene within the back room of the bath-set impressedJohn like a still on a film which had been full of action.First glance might have convinced a superficial person thatintrusion was a mistake, but the financier was not limited tofirst glances.

Leaning against the farther wall, her apparel reducedto the flimsiest of the samples on recent display, stood themanikin. Both her arms were upraised. Both hands claspedthe shoulders of Seff.

John glanced away; looked again; saw other things.

The girl was straining to push away the shopman, notto draw him to her. In her eyes, uplifted at the crashingof the door, was pictured the terror which had soundedin her cry. Her face was white as frost—looked the whiterfor a mark, shaped after the imprint of teeth, which wasreddening in the flesh of her cheek.

Self’s one arm wrapped her body tightly. His otherhand was entangled in her flimsy garment at the breast.His face, also turned toward the door, shuddered with anabsorbed, strange look between hope and hopelessness.

John Cabot stood on the threshold, held by astonishment.He had heard that high prices oft times were exacted ofshopgirls, as of aspirants for the stage. But this situationwould have seemed incredible except that there it wasbefore his eyes. He felt a demand for initiative.

In that scant moment of hesitation, the pros and consof the issue, as concerned himself, flashed through hismind. The principles in this behind-the-scenes passion playwere not of his class, or so Catherine would have said. Bothwere total strangers to him, therefore their relationshipnot his affair. More or less undesirable notoriety mustresult from interference—the inevitable complement? to theCabot millions.

However, just as he knew himself not to be a numberof things which Catherine would have wished him to be,he was one thing in particular which she did not wish himto be. There had been many times when, frankly, he hadcongratulated himself on having been a human being longbefore a multi-millionaire.

Through the space which he had vacated in the doorwayflocked a covey of fashion’s vultures. His audience formedas he crossed the room and laid a golf-hardened grip uponSeff’s shoulder. There was an instant of resistance. Thenhe tore the man away from the cowering girl.

Almost was he tripped to a fall. Glancing down, henoted a silken swirl upon the floor. His first act, afterthrowing aside the drink-maddened roué, was to gather upthe negligee last shown outside and lay it about the model’sshoulders.

He faced around to meet Seff’s thick-lipped threats.

“Wha—what do you mean? You’ll answer to me foryour interference and before you’re a minute older.”

The shopman chopped out at him recklessly, landing severalblows.

Taller than Seff by half a head, superbly fit in comparison,John stood as if stricken by sudden inability. Hiseyes were upon the scandalized throng that had crowdedinto the room, rather than his opponent. He protected himselfin a confused, inadequate way from a succession ofattacks. The while he was considering a plan to spare thegirl odium and involve her tormentor.

Evidently elated by the success of his tactics, Seff pausedfor emphasis.

“What d’you mean butting into my affairs?” he demanded.

“This,” answered John.

With the word, he sent his right fist to a particular spotin the aesthetic’s neck.

The effect was startling. Seff’s head lopped, his eyesrolled, his body wavered and stretched its length upon thefloor.

Fright-cries rose from the crush about the door; abovethem, a shrill demand in Catherine’s voice.

“John, are you mad?”

The first person to reach the prone figure was, however,without utterance. An equivocal look of dread and triumphwas on Mary Hutton’s face as she knelt beside the manwho was her employer and more; raised his head to herknee; held a bottle of smelling salts to his nose.

John Cabot’s attention returned to the cause of the bout.

She had wrapped the negligee closely around her andstood awaiting developments with dilated eyes—the model.On her cheek the mark of teeth showed redder than before.At his glance, she took a forward step, as if to thank him,then, embarrassed by the press of people around the door,stopped.

Without words, they two regarded only each other. Quitestill they stood, looking.

And as they looked, comrade spirits seemed to becomevisible in the glow of an incipient understanding. Besideher—faded in until to John it became as plain as her body—appeareda vision of loveliness and lure. Shy, yet unafraid,this vision beckoned him. From eyes bluer than the troubleddeeps of the girl’s gaze, it smiled on him. With hairgolden as the dreams of a child and tenuous as woman’swiles, it awoke in him a thrill like that on seeing the home-landbanner in foreign climes.

The while, in imagination, he heard the Spring Song ofMendelssohn, vaguely passionate, played by the pure-yearningnotes of a flute. The fragrance that accompanies theaspirations of youth filled his nostrils. A thought of apple-blossomshurt his mind with midsummer weariness.

From his heart, as if aroused by its increasing beat,uprose response to the vision. Not as if born of the moment—ratheras if long protected from impious eyes—anemotion new to him seemed to take form. He felt thatthe girl, as well as he, must see and recognize.

Cruel with tenderness, eager with fear, the emotion thathad arisen from his heart-beats passed, like a gallant shape,from him to her. In command that was, in truth, but aprayer, it faced the comrade soul of her.

For a moment and an age, the eyes of the financier andthose of the shopgirl met and held, each pair the other.Met also, in that age of moment’s length, the lad Amor,a creature of the spirit whose first desire is to have andto hold, with Innocentia, one not more to cherish thanto fear.

A low-voiced, fragmentary conversation recalled John tothe more material present.

“You, Mary?”

“Who else? At your worst I wouldn’t dare to desertyou.”

“Any more than I would you. If you hadn’t poured meso much of—— Anyhow I’ve done what you said Icouldn’t do—put over a sweatshop fake that——”

“Hush, Vin. Come, get up.”

Turning, John saw Mrs. Hutton steady Seff to his feet.

An imperative voice at his own elbow advised: “Bettercome with me at once, John, unless you wish to get intothe newspapers.”

“That is just what I do wish, Catherine,” he said.

“But as the protector of this latest Inconnue?”

“Unknown?” John glanced at his wife surprisedly, thenon to the wall against which the manikin had stood.

Gone was the luring vision which his mother had taughthim to believe was the soul of womanhood. Gone also thegirl.

His sense of loss must have shown in his face.

“Why not play Don Quixote for some one more ambitious?”Catherine gibed. “Ask me to nominate them—asyour wife I could choose the subjects with regard to thefamily honor and glory. I tell you there are reporters inthat crowd. Once they recognize you——”

“Reporters?” He took a step toward the crush. “Publicity—that’sthe cure for this scourge. Where are they?”

“But, John——” The wife who never could decidewhether she disapproved or admired her husband the more,remembered in the emergency to be guileful. “Would youcrush the victim to cure the scourge? Shouldn’t chivalryprotect the good name of that girl? At least, she is young.”

“And pure as a white violet. For once you are right.Excuse me a moment. I must find a telephone.”

He strode away.

“Mule and mad, at that—a mad mule!”

The finality of Catherine’s thought-tribute returned herto her own predicament. Her shrug redraped about hershoulders the satin-smooth mantle of her social superiority.There was a chance that she might escape inclusion inwhatever notoriety should ensue. Did not a woman and amother—the occasion evoked a thought of Jackie—owe herfirst duty to herself? Let John take the consequences of hismania for reform, even to being advertised as loitering aloneat the lingerie show!

Directly upon the decision to detach herself from possiblyunpleasant consequences, she skimmed the edge of the crowdand left the store.

When John Cabot returned to the stage he saw that Seffalready was surrounded by the reporters. Mrs. Huttonstood at his elbow, a bottle from which she evidently hadpoured some sort of restorative in one hand, an emptiedglass in the other.

The shopman looked distressed, either by the dose pressedupon him or by his recent experience—perhaps by both.He was speaking with something of the fluency of his recent“speech,” the while adjusting his delicately-toned tie andbrushing from one sleeve a reminder of his fall.

“I am Vincent Seff, owner of this establishment. A slightmisunderstanding occurred inside, yes. But I have a hopethat you good people, also guests at my entertainment,will respect my hospitality enough to withhold its unfortunatefinale from your papers.”

The press representatives, three women and a lone man,looked dubious at this hypothetical claim. A second man,tilted in a chair against the wall, who was in the act offinishing a creditable sketch of the manikin, lifted to Cabota companionable grin.

“Good, ain’t it?”

“Yes, it is. What will you take for it?”

“What will I take?” The grin broadened. “Why, abetter art job than the one I’ve got.”

“Unfortunately I can’t pay that.”

“Sorry not to oblige an admirer of my work.” The artistbanged down the forelegs of the tilted chair and gatheredup his paraphernalia for departure. “If it’s your nice littleidea to keep the girl’s picture out of the paper, it wouldn’thelp any to withhold this. The camera gang departed onthe run some time ago.”

Seff, at Mrs. Hutton’s touch on his arm, had turned andseen the addition to their group. He continued in urgenttones:

“Of course you must write your stories right, boys andgirls. But I do wish you’d go light on this finish. For thesake of a highly valued patron, I should regret to have acertain name figured. Also, it scarcely seems fair to jeopardthe chances of an overly impulsive young girl, just at herstart of life.”

“But her scream, Mr. Seff?”

“And the door-smashing?”

“Not to mention that lively bout?”

The trio of women scribes prodded him, as though satellitesof the sport instead of fashion page.

The dapper designer plunged.

“I admit that there was a small fracas, but it was dueentirely to a misunderstanding. It is all patched up now,therefore not worth mentioning. For once I was at faultin my choice of an employee. You will agree, I am sure,that my little attempt at an artistic display would not havecarried an evil suggestion to the clean minds for whosepleasure and profit it was planned. I scarcely know howto express myself, friends. Do try to appreciate myposition.”

He glanced, as if for helpful suggestion, toward MaryHutton, then went on, evidently planning his defense inits delivery.

“The poor girl was hysterical from nervous strain overher first public appearance. She could not have intended togive such rein to her impulses as—as—— Of course, awoman who will exhibit herself in such a rôle is notexactly—— Well, I’ll not go into that. But I owe it tomyself to say that even I, experienced at judging womenby their face values, would not have believed our guileless-lookingDolores Trent capable of a deliberate attempt tocompromise an employer who——”

“Cad!”

At the interruption, Seff took a backward step, evidentlyremembering the reach and force of the speaker’s punch.

John Cabot, with a frown, stayed the three women andlone man who, having been given the all-important nameof the woman in the case, were on the point of takingwing.

“Best give a minute,” he advised. “You haven’t got thereal story yet. This sale is a fake. The goods were manufacturedin Seff’s own sweatshops right here in New York.The money was taken under false pretenses. I am not inposition to state just how usual among supposedly high-classshops is the sort of indelicacy we’ve witnessed thismorning. Fortunately, however, I am able to make anexample of this instance. I am John Cabot. I ask you toinvestigate.”

“I have heard enough of this contemptible attack, nomatter who or what you are.” Seff hurled himself intothe breach as bravely as his condition would permit. “Nothingbut respect for the feelings of your wife has kept mefrom having you ejected before this. You cannot influencethe newspapers against us. We are, as you should know,persistent advertisers. I ask you now to go quietly and atonce, before I——”

For a moment it seemed that his advice had been accepted.John Cabot turned and crossed to the rim of the stage.There he lifted his hand to the lingering society contingent.

“I have sent for the police,” he said. “They’ll be hereany minute now. They have a habit, I’m told, of takingthe names of eye-witnesses. Subpoenas generally arrive atelsewhere-essential moments, so I’d suggest that such of youas have any important engagements for the near future——”

He had said enough. The remaining “valued patrons”broke the leash of curiosity and hurried away after theexample of the “thoroughbred” Mrs. Cabot. Be it addedthat they waited not for the elevator, nor counted the stepsin the flight of their descent.

For diverse reasons, a group remained with John Cabotduring his brief wait for the detectives of the nearby Tenderloinpolice station. The reporters stayed because ofthe “realer” crux of the story explaining the scream ofa shopgirl; Mrs. Hutton because, as she had asserted, shedared not desert Seff; the owner himself because of thecompetent look of a golf-steeled right, swinging from anarm whose length and strength he knew.

The while, Seff gained considerable reassurance from asotto voce consultation with his forewoman who, in theemergency, seemed to have reversed the usual relationshipof employed to employer. He greeted the officers as thoughthey had come at his request and asked that they searchthe store for the model. She, although the cause of the disturbance,would be needed, he declared, as his chief witness.

Upon the report that no trace of her could be found, headdressed himself to the financier with a noticeable cessationof resentment.

The girl was gone, he pointed. That fact was substantialevidence of her guilty intent toward himself. No real harmhad been done and nothing would be gained by going throughwith his arrest on a charge that could not be proved. Certainly,with their combined influence, the unpleasant aftermathof what so many had voted a pleasant morning couldbe kept from the papers. Had Mr. Cabot no thought forthe consequence of the use of his name in such a connection?Even though he cared nothing for his own reputation, didhe not owe something to his family? Sentiment aside,with no complaining witness what could he gain to equalwhat he should lose by carrying out his threat?

“But there is a complainant,” John assured him pleasantlyenough. “That rôle is mine.”

“You? Can you possibly intend——”

Mrs. Hutton it was who found voice for direct demand.“What is the charge? We have a right to know, sir.”

“Assault.” John Cabot directly faced the shopman.Humor twitched his mouth as he asked: “Did you thinkI let you hit me for my own selfish pleasure?”

As the motor patrol purred its way to the station house,however, the amusem*nt faded from his face. The Fallair whipped his longing for the gentler zephyrs of Spring,for the breath of apple-blooms, for the sound of a fluteplaying Mendelssohn’s vaguely passionate theme.

He forced himself back to certain troubleful questionsof the moment. The manikin, Dolores Trent—what of her?The very strength of his desire to find her advised thathe should not look for her. Why favor himself as a trailer,while jailing Seff? But where would she hide herself—whatdo?

CHAPTER VII

Morning in a land of endless twilight!

The spirit-girl lay late abed after that first awakeningin Gehenna, as she realized with the switching off of themauve curtains which had shut sunrise from her chamber.On her show of weariness after last night’s ordeal, shehad been told how King Satan, after his preference forthe customs of Earth, had time apportioned into periodsof day and night, with eventide and dawn, midnight andnoon exactly fixed. By means of his electric sun, moonand attendant stars, supplied from the power accumulatorson the eastern and western fringes of the Gehennan desert,the semi-light shed from the eternal radiance of the ElysianFields was made to seem negligible.

Dolores had been grateful for the respite. The shadesabout the court, she had noted, looked more or less materialaccording to their naturalization into Shadow Land. Sheherself had been declared unusually visible, even for anew-comer, and was expected to have the habits of herlate estate. She had not slept the sleep of Earth, anymore than she had tasted the suggestion-foods of lastnight’s banquet, except as a reminiscence of taste. Andyet, with eyelids closed against sight of what was, andher inner vision limited to only the dearest of what hadbeen, she had passed into a sort of soul-rest—into memoriesand imaginings that were one fond, commingled dreamof John Cabot.

Further aroused by a subservient voice, she sank anelbow into the damask-sheened pillow; lifted herself; openedeyes and mind to the now.

“Your shower is turned on, m’lady.”

The repetition was in English. Before, the same wordshad been spoken in French. Such perfect intonation intwo languages piqued her interest. She glanced aroundto see standing beside her couch a woman-shade in theblack and white of service.

“Madame’s hair is so black, perhaps she is Italian. Itrust I have not startled you. His Majesty ordered thatyour bath be of cold cathode rays. They are very exhilaratingif one can stand the shock.”

Although this third offering came in the honey-sweetlanguage of love, a look of hate was on the serving woman’sface.

“Who are you?” Dolores asked in the tongue of firstchoice.

“You may call me Adeline. I am your maid.”

Somewhat disconcerted by the unservile gesture withwhich a robe of rainbow lights was held out for her convenience,Dolores put another question.

“How do you come to speak three languages? Anddoesn’t the name Adeline mean of noble birth?”

“Ah, Madame also is French. She will the better understand.”A smile less pleased than bitter stiffened thepatrician lips. “I am of noble birth and on earth wastreated according to my rank. But the judgment that consignedme to the Realm of Reversals has changed all that.Here we who were ladies serve our former maids. Andhard taskmistresses they are, given thus the power to equalizetheir past humiliations.”

A thought of the fate awaiting Catherine Cabot madeDolores shudder. “A grim conceit, that—I suppose theKing’s own?”

The demoted noblewoman nodded. “Not Lucretia Borgiaherself could have conceived so cruel a sentence. It is notthe tasks from which I suffer, but the thought of doingthem. My first position was to serve the creature whomI had treated with all consideration in my household, shewho afterward cost me my husband, my position in societyand my life. Madame understands? I killed her. Madame’sshower is turned on.”

She who never had been served sought to refuse theoffices of this quondam great lady. On Earth no one haddrawn up the morning shades for her, she declared; hadbrushed the cobwebs of dreams from her lashes with dampenedcloths; had proffered the steaming beauty cup, perfumedher bath, placed her mules, held her robe. No needwas there for Adeline to suffer while under assignment toher.

She was ill-repaid for her kindly intent.

“It is, then, as I feared. Madame is but one of themherself.”

With contemptuous manner, m’lady-who-was insistedupon performing those duties which she knew so well fromhaving exacted them.

“I must serve you,” she explained, “whether you wishto be served or not. I must work out my sentence. Nonedares tamper with the Rule of the Realm of Reversals. Myhusband warns me——”

“Your husband? Are you so fortunate as to have hiscompany here?”

A moment the maid contemplated the eagerness on hernew mistress’ face, then gave a vicious twist to the massof dark hair she was arranging. “That he received a redticket is the one bit of justice I have found in GreaterGehenna. He bungled the trick of obtaining that verdict inman’s favor usually granted gratis by the world.”

“You speak, Adeline, as though you hated him.”

“Hate him?” Fury shook the cultured voice. “Is itnot because of him that I am here? And he—always heseeks me at the fête of servant-fiends to complain of thehumiliations forced upon him by his ex-valet, for well heknows that his only chance of reversal will come throughme. Since Madame is so good as to inquire, I do hate theman I loved. I hate him the more, perhaps, for controllinghis hate of me—for his pretense of continued love.”

To Dolores, the strange creature’s will to hurt her bytwisting her hair was kind compared with this unintentionalsqueezing of the hope-drops from her heart. Would everyone about the court have power to make her suffer for herpast? When he whose companionship the lost soul of hercraved so unutterably should one day be sentenced to thisrealm for their common social crime, would he also hide hatein a pretense still to love?

But no. Although on Earth John had not sought heras had other men and at the last had seemed to desert,she dared not believe that the great heart of him couldchange when he came through the gate into the LowerLand—when, one day, he joined her.

The mother-soul’s good-morning to her babe was interruptedby a message from the King. She was to attendhim at once in the Garden of Bad Luck.

Dismay possessed Dolores. Probably His Majesty meantto probe deeper, with his knife-like cynicisms of last night,into the wounds of her former state. But a thought ofthe folly of foreboding soon steadied her. She had nochoice.

“I shall go at once,” she told the maid. “I feel quiterested and strong.”

“I should suggest to Madame that she omit to mentionher restful night,” Adeline said. “Otherwise he will notpermit that it happen again. He awaits beside the HardLuck fountain.”

Dolores in turn offered advice. “While I am gone, doffthat cap and apron and imagine you are a lady again. He’llnever know, for I won’t tell and the babe can’t.”

“Never know, he?” The French soul smiled briefly.“Madame perhaps will excuse, but evidently she is not yetacquainted with m’lord of reversals. Know? I myselfshould tell him if none else did. He would compel me todo so.”

To Dolores’ relief, the King seemed to have forgottenher regrettable history when she found him awaiting herat the spot of his appointment. At any rate, he made noreference thereto.

“I am going to show you around my place,” he informedher. “I take a pleasant shame in it. Guess I’ve got whatreal-estaters call ‘the property sense’—a brand of nonsense.”

He led her through an avenue-like effect of lime treesto a lawn of dwarfed red-top, where stood a winged vehicle,as much an improvement over the planes of Earth as wasthe motor-car over Grimes’ one-horse shay.

“My aeromobile,” he announced with prideful gesture.

Although of a mind given to taking for granted allmechanical details, Dolores could not but wonder at thiscraft. Its wings looked more like those of a huge hawk thanthe rigid spread of the aeroplanes she had seen flying lowover Central Park. Instead of standing upon wheeled running-gear,bird feet of a proportionate size clawed into theground. In its head glittered a constantly moving pair ofeyes.

“How ever do you rise in that?” Dolores asked. “Andonce you do get up, how make it go? And up and off,how do you land?”

He was frankly gratified by her interest.

“They call me,” he exulted, “‘Prince of the Powerof the Air.’ From its essence I create whatsoever I will.”

“Then this, too, is only illusion?”

“But illusion realer than the Rock of Ages. Effects madeby electricity are indestructible. You can switch them off,as you can transfer existence from one state to another,but you cannot destroy them.” His look intensified: “Thiselement and the immortal soul are the only two absolutelysteadfast quantities.”

“Except—” she hesitated—“except good in the heart.”

“Except evil in the mind, you mean.”

He snapped the correction at her, evidently displeased,but soon returned to the subject of his “Hell Hawk.” Ina round of the machine, he showed her a propeller placedbeneath the fuselage by which it might be lifted straightor lowered on reverse; explained the encased “pusher” atthe stern and “puller” at the bow which furnished silent,horizontal speed; described the shock absorbers with whichthe talons were equipped and the practicability of reflectingscenes below in the moving, mirror-like eyes.

“Experience is the best demonstrator. May I hand youin?”

Dolores sank into the double seat that swung like a hammockacross the roomy co*ck-pit. Satan placed himself besideher, seized the “stick” by which his super-bird was directedand pressed the starting button.

Like an elevator the aeromobile shot upward, with anutter lack of vibration that gave the effect of hella-firmareceding, while their craft stood still. Soon, however, hereleased the lofting button to press that which gave powerto the drivers. Forward through space they started at aspeed which would not have seemed speed at all, exceptfor the mounting figures finder-pointed upon a dial set intothe invisible air-screen before them. They seemed to hoverabove, while Gehenna raced past them below.

“It is—is wonderful,” breathed the Apollyon guest,pauperized in expression by the emotions that accompanya first flight.

He nodded. “Consider this morning’s air-joying one ofyour rewards for being, although a factory girl, somewhatdifferent from the rest.”

She turned to him. “You must have some object intreating me so well. What is it?”

“Ha, you are like the rest, after all—curious!” His Highnessexclaimed. “Must every she-soul know the end ofthe story first? Suppose my object is to acquaint you withmyself through my works. ‘By their works ye shall knowthem.’ So look and know. Apply what mind you have togetting a panoramic conception of the extent of my kingdom.Notice the estates surrounding the palace park. Ihave given them over to vari-villains so fortunate as to havemerited my approval.”

When Dolores gripped the edge of the swinging seat andleaned to peer over the side of the fuselage, he objected.

“Why must you earthlings do everything the hardest way?Let the Hawk see for you.”

He indicated an artfully arranged series of mirrorswhich reflected through the eyes of the bird a moving pictureof scenes beneath.

“It looks like—like a picture postal-card of some tropicalcity, only not so bright and more squat,” she observed aftera moment. “It is neatly laid out.”

“It is neat,” Satan admitted. “Our perpetual heat-without-raindoes fade the colors, though. The only moisturewe get down here is when the angels weep over some newtriumph of mine. Hell knows I try to make them open theducts more often. If ever I learn to weep myself, I’ll likelyirrigate a lot of suffering.”

“And why do you wish to weep?”

“People seem to enjoy it so. As for the squatness ofthe bungalows, what can you expect in the most tropicalof climates? Assume a little imagination if you have it not.You should have seen the place before I took hold of it. Atfirst, after my sudden fall into utter desolation from theParadisian comforts of home, I couldn’t see any possibilitiesin Gehenna. But I never was one to let bad enough alone.”

“Oh, I didn’t say I thought it bad,” Dolores hastenedto insert.

“No, you didn’t, but you’d better! Of course, it’s notwhat it might be, even now, but it was a perfect chaos whenI began, a sort of peaceful haze, with not so much as asuffering gnat for me to vent my disposition on.”

“It’s so different from anything that——” Dolores puzzled.

“Did you expect to find Pluto wallowing in a lake offire, á la Milton?”

“Gehenna is a place of torture, isn’t it? I wasn’t taughtwhat they call religion in my childhood, but I typed thesermons of a minister for a while and I know what——”

She hesitated, regretting her persistence. Satan’s facialexpression, always mobile, had altered for the worse.

“A minister, eh?” he asked fiercely. “I suppose he rantedthe regular hell-fire stuff? Let me tell you that keepingthe realities of my place from the preach-praters of Earthis the hardest thing I do. If they conceived a fraction ofmy achievements in the torture line, even in this vestibuleto the real hell farther on, I’d never have a chance to hangout the S. O. S. sign—never. Earthlings would be goodand The Great Intention foiled.”

“The Great Intention, sir? What can you mean?”

He glared at her; snarled his reply: “Greater than youhave gone to the chair of perpetual voltage for the impertinenceof asking that. None knows my Great Intention savemyself. It is ‘closed up and sealed until the time of theend.’ But woe betide the red soul in Gehenna that doesnot work toward its fulfillment!”

So threatening was his manner that the girl-shade shrankaway; as soon as she dared, returned her attention to thetopographical features of the world infernal.

Back whence they had come, over incalculable miles ofcouchant dwellings, Apollyon Palace and its gardens glitteredin the rays of the artificial sun. On either side, taxingto the eye as the illusive distances of a boundless desert,detail merged into mirage-like suggestion of detail, untilnothing more could be imagined—quite nothing more exceptinfinitude of space.

As they sped through the high-tempered air, shafts of fire-fleckedsmoke reached up as if to devour them. Directlybelow, for sections which might have been miles or tens ofmiles each, huddled a series of convex structures with theround chimneys of pottery kilns. Massed here and therewere what looked to be warehouses and factories.

The tension of the royal mood relaxed in a free gesture.“Object to my furnaces smoking? I have to burn somefire and brimstone to satisfy the preconceived mortal ideaof damnation. The old-timers would think less of me ifI didn’t. At that, I’m sparing of it. Am bagging thegases for future needs. You look surprised. Do earthlingsreally believe that the idea of poison gas was madein Germany? Why, my child, I’ve looked forward forages to the destructiveness of the fumes thrown off byburning fiends incarnate—the real thing, you know, madein Hell!”

Irritation again nettled his voice at the look on the facebent low to gaze through the rising heat-hazes.

“You work as hard as a Cook’s tourist at sight-seeing.Don’t make the mistake of supposing you can get morethan an illustrative idea of Greater Gehenna in a day, aweek or a year. Just a cursory glance this morning. Tothe East stretch our fire-proof picture storage warehouses,where we stow millions a minute of the life-films of importantearthlings. Below is the Devil’s Own Play-House.Make a guess at its capacity.”

Dolores, however, made no guess. Her interest had centeredin a small, incredibly luminous lake that attracted evenas it hurt the eye.

“What is yonder pool and the great gleaming ball thatfloats above, like the soap-bubble of a god?”

“That is the one biggest bubble of the god. Chief thingI wanted you to see. You have a germ of intelligence—onlydon’t bother to cultivate it, for it’s not to be comparedwith your other attractions. What I want of you is—ButI digress.”

He declared the “bubble” his latest and greatest invention,the last blow, so to speak, in motion picture photography, bywhich events on Earth might be pictured simultaneously withtheir occurrence.

Just then the Ball of Life, not being in use, was uncoveredthat it might absorb atmospheric vitality. The countlessprisms of spirits of mercury which composed the poolacted as one glass in reflecting distant Earth-scenes caughtby the whirling bubble, which ignored distances as it didmaterialistic interference. The vast stadium when filled,was enclosed with adjustable electric walls of dark green.There, from under eye-shields, the doings of Earth might bewatched as they were done.

“If ever you get homesick, fair house-guest, I’ll giveyou a look-in on the conduct of the dear detained.”

“Oh, if you only——”

Dolores smothered her wish in the midst of its expression.

“If I only wouldn’t!” Rather disagreeably the Kinglaughed at her obviousness. “Now for a dip below the sun.I abhor this pale, abiding light. Makes me blind as a bat.”

As they bolted downward, he volunteered to correct herassumption that already she had arrived in Hell. GreaterGehenna was only the starting station.

“We haven’t reached the bottomless pit or the lake offire yet, not by a world-full. And perhaps——” His coherencyslackened. “Just perhaps we never shall. Thatdepends upon who is stronger when the test comes, the cast-outnear-angel or—— It is a strange thing if bad won’tovercome good in the Universe—if ruthlessness and preparedness——”

He checked himself, as though self-accused of disclosingtoo much to such a neophyte. After a suspicious scowlaround at her, he continued:

“That hell-fire idea is only figurative. Why threaten thespirit with physical duress? You have an expression onEarth, ‘so near and yet so far,’ that has taught me therefinement of torture. I want to show you close-ups ofsome specials of my invention.”

Skimming low, he pointed her attention ahead to the Cageof In-Law Relatives, “absolutely the most vicious spiritsever caught in the toils of durance vile,” as he describedthem, “and the only extant bipeds never tamed.”

What had looked a low mountain proved to be a dome-shapedenclosure of such size that the curve on its eitherside sloped gradually into the perspective. Through theinterstices of its barbed wall thousands upon thousands ofmanes, more female than male, could be seen moving within.From it blew a wind so malignant that Dolores’ eyes smartedand her ears roared—a wind of whispers from countlesstongues all breathing forth hate at once. Not one of the“in-laws” spoke out. All whispered.

“Blood egotists!” Satan chuckled. “As all the world ismore or less eligible for the Cage, I have space only for afew of the most horrible examples. Seems an awful fateto inflict them upon each other, but I discovered early thatthey are a race unto themselves. There is nothing to equaltheir viciousness, not even professional jealousy. After all,it is the mean little emotions that people Hell.”

The lettered designation of a barrack-like structure Satanread:

BASTARD BABY WARD

“There lie the infant-shades along endless aisles. Theircribs are lined with electro-cacti-spines. Their coverlets areof satiny bisnaga petals sewed together with their ownneedles.” His Highness fixed a side glance on the mother-soul’sface as he enthused: “Although a virtuous bachelor,I know that their whimpers mean they want milk. So I feedthat ‘so near and yet so far’ rule unto ‘even the least ofthese.’ I have their nursing bottles filled with scalding,opaque air.”

“But how can a baby deserve an evil fate?” Doloresdemanded. “I was not taught the Scriptures, but does theGreat-I-Am, as you call Him, countenance such a law?”

“My favorite author, Deuteronomy, answers that. ‘Abastard shall not enter into the congregation of the Lord.Even to his tenth generation shall he not enter in.’ Thesins of fathers being visited upon their children is an unjustlaw that particularly appeals to me.”

At her sob he offered pseudo-consolation. “Be of goodcheer. Your bastard is not consigned to the Ward—thatis to say, not yet.”

Low over a subdivision more dusty than any passed theysailed. Here the scraggliest effect of vegetation ceased.Lizards moved languidly, if at all, and snakes lolled theirforked tongues.

Satan, apparently gratified by his proselyte’s nervousness,apologized: “Sorry I cannot spare time this morningto take you through Serpent’s Tooth Valley. I quite anticipateyour pleasure in the antics of my snakes—a sharp-toothpursuing every thankless well-begot. It’s a livelyplace. You really should get in sympathy with the serpent.He was my first agent and cannot be excelled for loathsomeness.Can you see that rattler—that cobra? FromArizona to the Indies they are feared, hated—and respected.By an arbitrary edict, which I cannot at present veto, they’vebeen forced to crawl upon their bellies since early days. Butone of my first acts of reward to the unrighteous after Ihave come into my own shall be to set them up again.‘When snakes shall rise on their tails!’ A more inspiring linenever was writ.”

The tourist-by-command shuddered, but did not speak.He followed her gaze toward a barren dune in the distanceover which a vapor hovered high as could be seen.

“Nits pestering the Traitors to Mothers, among whom Ithreatened last night to throw my chef. Although theyare an assorted bad lot, we can afford to pass them, as Ihad no mother and you next to none. Got the scheme ofthe chuck-hole from the Book of Revelations: ‘Wherethey shall be tormented day and night forever and ever.’It is not that anything in particular is so unendurable. It’sthe way I keep it up. In rotation I visit all the old-fashionedplagues upon them, murrain, boils and blains, frogs—Butimagine the rest. There is one special side-show thatwill have a personal appeal to you to which I feel I shouldtake you before we return. Look out. I’m going to land.”

Again the Hawk had acted like an elevator. Its spreadingclaws clutched the sanded soil, their shock absorbersfunctioning without jar. The spirit-girl, once again uponhella-firma, gazed dazedly about.

From the rim of a monstrous, crater-like cup nearbyspilled a steam like a giant’s breath, strong, noxious, horrific.When Dolores shrank back, well-nigh overcome, herSatanic guide fanned aside the fumes and drew her upwardtoward the edge.

“Merely the regrets of the sirens,” he insisted. “This isthe one all-woman department of Gehenna, the Wanton’sWell. Lean over. Look. See them gasp. See them try tofaint. They hope that they are dying, but no chance ofthat. Not one ever thinks she deserves her fate or acknowledgesher own defiance of decency. Her own case, yousee, is always ‘different.’ Only when she is surrounded byothers of her kind, thousands of them worse than she, doesshe begin to comprehend that in the judgments of menwoman’s unpardonable sin may have no difference. Thinkof that, O fair and famed Dolores Trent—that betweenyou and these, your sisters, there is no difference!”

Although the girl-shade felt about to collapse, she washeld by his mental dominance. Leaning, she looked.

Her tormentor continued: “It is hot down there—hot asthe curse of society. The wantons burn in a fever oflonely lust. They thirst for a sip of the affection andpoetry—even of the rashness which made the passion-cupsweet. And all the endless hours until That Day they’ll notget a drop to wet their lying lips and sin-blacked tongues.”

A tug upon the hem of the royal robe cut short theinquisition. An aged female manes, sear-looking and fate-limnedas would have been a relief map of this ErubianRealm, had tottered up behind them unheard. Her silveredhair writhed backward in the blast from The Well. Herhands shook toward it as shake withered grasses over adry creek bed.

“Sire, she cannot stand it much longer down there, myMillie,” the crone-soul quavered.

“Ha, Grandma Nuisance again!” UnconventionallySatan introduced her to Dolores. “An oldish lady who hasseen better days. Ever notice that most oldish ladies haveseen better days?”

“I am asking naught for myself, your gracious Majesty.I was old enough to know better. But Millie wasn’t twentyyet and that high-strung and sore-tempted.”

Ungraciously His Majesty continued to explain her:“That dame, after an impeccable life on her own account,plunged a knife through the licentious breast of an offspringwho, despite frequent asseverations that she’d rather bedead, lacked courage to perform the function for herself.They sentenced the old girl for life, the judge and juryhaving that weakness for mothers which is bred in thewomb of the world. Down here, I haven’t seemed to findthe right berth for her, so have left her to her own devices,which take the form of torturing herself in this existenceas in the last over the sins of her Millie the Magnificent.”

With threatening manner he turned on the crone.

“I told you not to follow me again.”

“But I am driven. I failed to fetch her up right orshe’d never have gone wrong. It’s all my fault. Let herout of the well. Let me take her place.”

The grief coursing from her faded eyes seemed againto change the variable royal mood. Seizing her wisp ofhair, he compelled her to the edge.

“At least you may suffer with her,” he conceded.“Misery loves company, they say.” He thrust forward herpeaked face. When her eyes failed to moisture at thoughtof the wrench he had given her neck, he essayed a wrenchat her heart.

“See Her Magnificence on the ledge just below, parching,burning, dying an age-long death of thirst. Hi, there,Millicent, have you thought out some new way you mighthave married him? Here’s mother dear, come to bringyou a drink. How her brilliant beauty is fading underdrouth! You who suckled her as a babe, you cannot denyher just one drop? But alas, your bosoms are withered asyour face. Surely, though, you’re not out of tears?” Overthe rim he called: “The drink, the drink, Millicent!Mother’s tears—extra salt.”

Dolores understood that the struggles of the spirit-dameand the wail that came from the depths were in resistanceof his mental brutality. Yet she, too, was moved to actionby a thought.

Stepping close to the edge, she contested Satan’s clutchof the old shade; drew her back; bade her begone.

“Lift your prayers upward, mother,” she breathed in avoice of the night-winds. “I have heard that only GodHimself can save.”

Her shoulders were seized in a fiendish clutch.

“Enough of that only-God drivel! You trying to checkmateme?”

As she was twisted around to meet the Mind-Master’sglare, she shook at the clash of his will against her own;knew herself conquered; realized that, without beingdragged, she was returning to the rim of the Wantons’ Well.She was going over ... over....

“Might as well end it now as later on,” Satan snarled.“How are you going to like it down there, Dolores Trent—downwhere your world has sent you—down where thereis no difference?”

All was over then, thought the spirit-girl. And herbaby——

She had heard his laughter quite a while before she beganto understand. Opening her eyes, she saw that she stillstood on hella-firma. In time she must have been willedback from the brink. Nearby sat His Majesty, shaken byunholy mirth.

To Dolores this ebullition was more terrifying than hisrecent wrath. After the emotional stress of the morning,she felt that she could not endure it. Glancing in thedirection taken by the crone-shade, she made out the bentfigure dissolving into the brume. She arose and faced hertormentor.

“I wish you wouldn’t laugh that way,” she said, calmlyas she could.

Satan wiped his eyes.

“I do get so amused at the rages into which I work myselfto frighten folks,” he commented when able to articulate.“Really, you can’t imagine how much fun I have withmyself. Pardon me, but I—I just can’t get over your——”

“Won’t Your Highness oblige me by——”

“My Lowness.”

“Your Lowness. Please, Pluto.”

“‘Please, Pluto!’” Although mocking her, he settledinto seriousness. “When you get tricky like that—call mefriendly names for favors, you know—it is then that I havehopes of you. Didn’t you know I was only fooling? Doyou suppose I’d drop you over the rim before hearing therest of those griefs to men?”

They returned to the Hell Hawk by way of The Laneof Futile Labors. Although the King seemed minded tohurry, Dolores’ steps lagged, so absorbing were the illusorysights on either hand.

In a fenced plot a gardener was on his knees before aline of young rose-plants. A stray weed he pulled witheager hand. The soil around the roots, pulverized alreadyfrom his diligence, he loosened yet again. Anxiously helifted his eyes toward the electric sun, the while fanning withhis trowel the drooping leaves.

“Soon the rain will fall. It must sometime,” he mumbledto this plant and to that, as though addressing conscientthings. “If you’d bear me just one rose among you, evena half-blown rose——”

So the old dodderer was back to roses again! ThusSatan commented to the girl-shade. Roses were the gardener’sspecialty. He had begun with them a thousand yearsbefore, trying between whiles to bring to bloom everyknown flower, from shrubs to lowly blue-bells. Interestingto keep count upon how often he would revert to the hopelesshope of that one rose!

Over his bench an inventor twenty years dead was aboutto try out a miniature airship over which he had spent theentire span of his endless workdays. As the moment of thetest approached his hands twitched too spasmodically toturn the propeller. Glancing up into the censorious smileof the royal bystander, his face contorted by an expectancypainful to see, he gained control. Next moment the inventionwhich he had quitted earth too soon to see perfectedlay on the ground. At his touch the model had quitted thebench, hovered briefly in mid-air, then dropped.

An artist mixed paints on her palette. Over an impressionisticstudy of the lurid sky-scape she worked, inspiredby sheer necessity. But the colors faded to a monotone, nomatter how thickly she laid them on.

Long before the end of the Lane, Dolores had begun tounderstand. That one rose never would bloom. The modelplane could not fly. No paint squeezed from Avernian tubesmight express the genius of the artist-shade for even oneshort hour. It was too late for the most ambitious spiritto achieve.

Shadows from her somber thoughts were in the glanceuplifted to her guide.

“You have the askingest eyes,” observed he. “Very well.I’ll give you a lift through the Lane of Labors. Of courseit is all illusion. The gardener imagines the weeds, theinventor the crash of his plane, the artist her chromaticpigments. And what we see in them is what they believe ofthemselves. Just as well might they imagine success, exceptfor—For what now, do you suppose?”

“For fear?”

Satan nodded. “Thought you’d get the idea if I gave youtime. A singer fears that her voice will fail. It fails. Awoman with child fears for its inheritance. She bears adefective. A sea captain fears that he cannot manage hiscrew. From his weakness springs their mutiny. Exceptfor fear in the heart you earthlings could become a raceof gods.”

“Gehenna, then, is thwarted hope?”

“Gehenna is preconceived failure, built up on my revisedtheory, where-there’s-hope-there’s-life! Diverts me howthey try and try, foredoomed by self-doubt. They don’tand won’t know before That Day that they must fail. Absolutelyto know would be——”

“Hell?” Dolores’ lips shuddered the word.

“Hell will be despair. There none will try.”

“And—and Heaven?”

With the query the girl-soul’s eyes were lighted by avague gleam—a suggestion that night is not so much theend of a day past as the beginning of one to come.

“Heaven?” His Majesty scowled down at her. “Heaven,it is supposed, will be progress—assured realization. Tellme, did you ever find anything in realization?”

“No, not yet. But without faith——”

“A synonym for Heaven, that ‘not yet’!”—he said intolerantly.“As for faith—bah! Faith is the fear of fools.”

Hurrying her toward the waiting Hawk, he broached:“I am going to fly you back to Apollyon Palace over asection which I think will enlarge your conception of myplace. Everything is at a standstill down here, except——”

The eager look which completed his sentence filled Doloreswith uneasiness greater than that aroused by the futilelabors of the Lane. Evidently he, master of these denizensof doom, believed in some personal achievement. Did healso hope in vain? Last night she had crucified her modestyof soul in the hope of saving herself and her baby frompunishment. Would her effort fail? And John Cabot—oh,surely the faith with which she clung to that hope ofone day seeing John again was not the fear of a fool!

The apprehension seen in all faces that morning nowlooked from out her own. She felt much as when told thenature of her employment in Vincent Seff’s shop that long-agoday on Earth, after she had spent the sum advancedher. What price was to be exacted of her in this newposition? What meant that studying regard of her—whatthe varied encouragements which depressed her with sensationsmore heavy, if less intelligible, than any of those provedprescience in her former state?

Until when?

If what?

Except——?

“Except me.”

Not until they were cleaving the air directly beneath thehigh-swung sun did the King complete his suspended sentence.Like mere specks behind and below them were thecages and huts, the caves and wells and morasses of thelower bad-lands. On either side discernible objects blendedinto the sand sites reserved for expansion. Ahead, fartherthan the mind could think, stretched yet more distances.Truly a Cyclopean panorama, this topographical review ofthe hope-hell of the lost!

Dolores could not regard merely the spectacle. Even asshe gazed forward and back, her heart ached over suchfew individuals as she had seen and over the many she hadnot seen. Some, mayhap, deserved their fate, although most,she felt sure, were as was she, victims of the shallow judgmentsof men. Would they, could they endure until theSupreme Judge entered court? Could she?

At the burn of dry tears within her eyelids, she rememberedSatan’s exultation over the weeping angels. Evenshould she weep, her tears, like the crone-soul’s, would besalt—would tantalize, rather than refresh. She choked backher emotion.

“A pretended interest in one’s escort is more graciousthan none at all.”

As from a distance, she heard Satan’s reproach. Recallingher thoughts, she concentrated on what he was saying.

“How they hate me, yet how much more they fear me,my fiends! Certainly I have the advantage over rulers ofEarth in needing no secret service protectorate. Unfortunatelyfor my subjects, I am immortal. They know thatthey cannot kill the Master Mind, that mine is the onlyspirit in Gehenna to which achievement is possible. Thatfact I prove to them hourly through their sufferings. Theycall me The Destroyer, yet am I their one great hope ofsalvation.”

The boast puzzled Dolores. “The Destroyer a saviour?”

He showed surprise at her surprise.

“You don’t like me, my dear shade, or you’d show a morecredulous interest in my small confidences about myself.”

“I am interested, really.”

“Although you don’t like me? Never mind. I couldmake you do so—could make you love me if I chose. ButI don’t wish to make you. Hell knows I’ve got my pride!”

He gave up to an attack of his lonely chortles. Evidentlyhe had “amused” himself again. Next moment he seizedthe point of his Vandyke and straightened his countenanceto excessive length.

“Get behind me, ignoble impulse of pique! Mine othercheek, turn thou for a blow!” Lowering his face to hers,he added, most unexpectedly: “I don’t mind admittingthat you make it hard for me to be mean. Except that Ihave a reputation for meanness which I must deserve—Anyhow,it’s your turn to tell me something nice.”

“But—why—” stammered Dolores. “I don’t understand——”

“Oh, yes you do. Something nice that you think aboutme.”

Despite what she knew of him, the girl-shade was caughtby something of his own amusem*nt at himself.

“I think,” she offered, “that at times you seem a verygood deal of a human being.”

Clamping the plane’s “joy stick” between his knees, HisMajesty threw up both hands toward the glory of his imitationsky.

“As bad as that?” he exclaimed.

She could see, through his affected horror, that he wascomplimented.

“For the smallest of favors, even though forced, I thankyou,” he said with an appearance of sincerity. “That, mychild, is what I’d like best to seem to be—just a long-lastingman.”

“My child!” The unctuousness of his two words ofaddress, emphasized by his smug contemplation of her face,made Dolores turn away with a new uneasy wonder.Some one on Earth had called her “my child” with that sameaccent and gaze. Who?

Her distraction irritated him.

“Don’t sit there looking like a magazine cover. Yourprofile is odiously seraphic. If I’d seen it first, I’d not havegiven you a second thought.... That’s better....When I compare that asking look in your eyes with thedear little wrinkles around your mouth—those dear littlewrinkles——”

So long and so strangely did he continue to contemplateher that Dolores risked his displeasure by covering her facewith her hands. Again he surprised her.

“Your methods are unlike those of any in the whole Wellof Wantons. At times it is hard to believe the worst ofyou. Looking straight into your eyes, one sees——”

His pause she interrupted with an almost beseechingreminder.

“Does one—what?”

“Well, what has been your experience? Doesn’t one?”

His laugh was an insult.

Denied the eyes in whose royal purple shadows lurked“that look” which, underscored by the lines about hersmileless mouth, had got on his imagination, he soon tiredof the joke at her expense.

“You are a helliot for looks, no doubt of that,” he remarkedcrisply. “What I want to know is—can you fight?”

“Fight, Your—Your Lowness? Why should I fight?”

He did not answer either himself or her. His mannerchanged. He appeared chiefly impatient.

“You’d think I could manufacture time, the way I’mwasting it. With the crimes of the mortal world awaitingmy direction, I itinerate you through this tour. Not thatI think the education will be wasted on you. My originalconviction that it won’t be is strengthened. But I must getback.”

“I am ready to return at once, sir.”

“You look more than ready. This is a case, however,where the longest way round may prove the shortest home.”

He put The Hawk to its highest speed. It seemed thatthey might beat the winds in any race, beat thought, beateven light. With the edges of cleft air, Satan’s instructionscut into Dolores’ consciousness.

“The scenes we’re about to skirt will demonstrate whyI’ve striven through the ages for numbers. Look youtoward the east.”

Urged by a certain hard-suppressed excitement in hisvoice, Dolores strained her sight in the direction of hisgesture. Approaching them from the doubtful distances,came a vast company of uniformed shades. On either sidestretched countless tents.

“Can it be that you keep up—” she hesitated over theimprobable thought—“an army?”

“The Hordes of Hades.” The splendid head threw backuntil its red beard stabbed the forward air. The steel-coldvoice slashed like a sword. “Focus what imagination youhave on their probable numbers—unheard-of billions strong.Try to conceive the ruthlessness possible to demons freedfrom the fear of death. Consider the impossibility of themost arrant coward’s desertion with my brand stamped onhis brow.”

In her effort to obey, expression failed the spirit-girl.

Glancing around at her, Satan frowned. “Nothing tosay, as usual? You’ve not yet suspected, then, that the basicprinciple of Gehenna is militaristic? Where would anyautocrat be without defense for his autocracy?”

“This army, of what race is it come?”

At the simplicity of her question, His Highness laughed.“Do you think for a moment that a one-race army wouldbe enough for me? I may have been wrong since birth,but I’m right in the safety of numbers. The hosts beloware conscripted from the best bad men since Cain—Europeansand Americans from Japheth; Arabs, Jews, et al.,from Shem; Egyptians and Africans from Ham. Notchosen by God, but by me, and on the principle that in theheart of every man, be he white or black, red or yellow, isthe incipient germ of fratricide. Might is right—a sloganof my coinage. Hell over all, say I!”

With face working and eyes blinded by their own flare,he applied shaking fingers to the speed buttons of theaeromobile.

“Truth is stronger than fiction,” he declared. “Downthere you see a suggestion of the truth about me. But Ineed more man-made demons to demonstrate that truth. Imust have more, more, and yet more.”

His intensity affected Dolores like the winds which hadchilled her to the soul on her recent trudge through theValley of Death.

“I depend upon the beast that is in every man, as shownby the way the most fanatic pacifist will fight when forcedover the top. But how to gain recruits in bulk, now thatthe World War has failed!”

As they soared directly over the first encampment, heleaned to the mirror that reflected The Hawk’s revolvingeyes and began to count in numerals strange to his guestthe units in that section. Her brain, so recently finite, grewdizzy in the attempt to follow him.

Evidently he felt gratified by his computations. “Alreadya creditable army. Nobody but the Great-I-Am knows thetrouble I’ve had recruiting them and He only because Hehas been kept so busy trying to block me. From the first,I’ve counted on wearing Him out—getting Him so tiredthat He’ll be willing to let Nature take its course. Lookedrecently as though I’d succeeded, but I am beginning tofear—what with peace blanketing all the bad old predatoryinstincts and temperance creeping like a tidal wave overthe mortal world—My time is getting short. I mustthink—must concentrate.”

As he relapsed into what seemed urgent introspection,a ruddy mist began to emanate, first from his head, thenhis body. Open as was the air-scape and swift their flight,a noxious odor spread.

For a space they alternated tail-spins and nose-dives withloops in the lurid altitudes. Dolores, from her earth-habitof fear, cried out against such recklessness.

His Majesty’s dazed look suggested that her protest hadrecalled him from some evil spell. The emanations fromhis body thinned and ceased.

“Too much joy in our ride, my child? You’d forgive myabstraction if you realized how I am ulcering from thetrick the teetotalers put over on me—and only because Ifelt too strong to fear their weakness.”

A scorching glance he threw across at her, as thoughshe had spoken objection. “You’ve got to take what you getwhen you’re dead, you know. I am what most of you get.All I need to force the rookies of yonder army to my willis their own consciences. The morale is the only thing. Theyknow what they deserve and I am their only chance ofescaping it. It means something to those Relicts of Rightfor me to remark, ‘To hell with you!’”

The girl-shade’s eyes stung, not so much from the rushof torrid air as the effort to face his blighting gaze. Herconceptions were overtaxed, her mind fa*gged, her hearthurting with anxiety for the earthlings over whom she stillyearned. Realizing that some response was expected ofher——

“But why do you train so many millions of the lost?”

“Lost? Under my training they find themselves, just asyou soon shall be finding yourself and your powers forevil.” He eyed her yet more tryingly. “Why do you suppose,now?”

“Is it—” Dolores shuddered—“to send their spiritsin force to the living world, to conquer all that are left?At the Mystery Gate I was told that none might returnwho had crossed into Shadow Land.”

“You were told aright. The conflict for which my troopsare training will be in the Inter-World—an irresistible onslaughtof fiendishness. Do you suppose that I’ve beenstraining my inventiveness all these centuries to arouse thebeast in every man simply for amusem*nt? I have not yetbegun to show my power. But it won’t be long now towait.”

“And then?” Shaken by dread greater than her comprehension,she shrank away from him. “Do you speak ofyour Great Intention?”

His look leaped after her, a devouring fire.

“I speak of a night far spent—of a day that is at hand.I speak of earth and water and air that shall cleave togetheras component parts of chaos, of heavens that shall stretchout ‘like a curtain,’ of hordes that shall put on the ‘armorof light.’ No time to call on the gods of men in my surprise.No pause for a thought of reprieve. If love generateselectricity, what of hate? Hate shall be the ammunitionof the great drive. A fanfare of poisoned thoughts shallopen the fire. Once the lapsing fear for mortality isburned to dross, my demands shall be granted. You dareto probe the mystery of my Intention? Keep those askingeyes of yours on me, Dolores Trent. I am the mysteryof Mystery Land!”

Loud he hurled this declaration into the heated air. Asthough spoken into some megaphone of surpassing conductivepower, it reverberated away and away, down and down.At its message, lightning licked the air, to be gulped in turnby thunder. From below echoed tumult so great that theatmospheric response rumbled as from volcanic eruptions.Shrieks arose from the Hadean hordes.

His Majesty, slowing and steadying their craft as abird holds poise, pulled the girl-soul to her feet and withher leaned to watch, first-sight, the troops rushing intoformation. Soon sight of the units was cut off by slashingswords of light. A fetid gas arose from the on-rush.

In an ague of undefined terror, Dolores felt herself furthershaken by the clutch on her arm; heard the Princeof the Power of the Air again give himself over to mirth.

“Fool fiends, they hear my voice and think it is ThatDay! Not bad for an impromptu practice drive, eh? Onceall fear is drilled out of them, once their numbers are complete,once the full force of that gas is turned on—Ah, nothingand none may stand against the hate of Hell!”

Skimming the upper air toward the palace, he centeredhis attention on the cowering convert to his power.

“Whether you rise to the rôle in this new comedy divinefor which I am considering you, depends upon yourself,” hetold her. “Your first séance was one of fair success. Butnerve yourself for to-night lest you fail to entertain. Afterwhat you have seen to-day, you’d not wish to fail?”

The weight of her responsibility crushed out her reply.

“I should not dare to fail.”

He nodded, his hope evidently strengthened, as hers hadbeen weakened, by the morning’s flight.

“That Day you ask about—I do not understand myselfwhy it has been postponed so long. Do you suppose——”

As if startled by his own thought, Satan caught her handwith a touch that pained like a burn, yet left no mark. Hisvoice sagged superstitiously as he finished:

“Do you suppose it could have been ordained that Ishould wait—for you?”

CHAPTER VIII

“When hall bedrooms are alcoves in disguise”—so saidthe Royal Entertainer—“their inner walls are likely to bethin.”

This was true of the haven paid for in advance by DoloresTrent—true as thin. Often during that first night after thedénouement at Seff’s she had need to remind herself ofthe fact and of the sleep needs of the actor lady in theadjoining star-guest chamber. It was hard, though, not tocry, when she kept thinking of her father lying underneathhis sod blanket out in the rain. Indeed, she did not sleepuntil after the rain had stopped.

Comfort came with oblivion. In her dreams somebodystrong, young and ardent entered her door as though hehad the right—the love-lad who, in a vision more real thanthe shameful reality of the store-stage scene, had crossedto her side from the stranger who had rescued her. Throughthe narrow space between the wall and her cot he slipped;sat looking at her from the single, stiff chair; at last leaneddown and, ever so tenderly, kissed her on the lips.

A peremptory knock awakened her. In the coarse night-gown,which had felt like the embrace of a mother afterthose cobwebby things at Seff’s, she opened the door acrack upon the young blond hair and old brunette face ofher landlady.

“Your week being up to-day, there’ll be no refund. Yourtrunk not yet having come, it won’t take you long to packand go.”

“Go? Go where?” Dolores asked.

The reply, although characteristically and participiallyindirect, was clear. “Being raised decent myself and withGod’s help running a decent house, it’s not for me to saymore than that out you’re going, bag and baggage.”

Had some one from the lingerie shop acquainted the ladyof the house with the news of the fiasco of yesterday—perhapsVincent Seff himself? Did he mean to discredit herfurther—to hound her with advances or reproach?

The possibility determined her against any attempt atexplanation or appeal. Beyond this decision she had nottime to think until she found herself seated in a one-armchair of a self-service restaurant. Beside her stood thealligator bag. In her palm lay the residue of her recentwealth, two quarters; a substantial surplus, however, ascompared with the solitary nickel expended for the nectarinethat had decided her engagement only one weekbefore.

Coffee and crullers—a delicious breakfast when sweetenedwith the thought that she was released from her hideousbondage, the thought that she was free! With the weakbrew came strong thoughts.

Why had she discounted her heritage of education? Whyconsider work in factories or shops when she spoke threelanguages and read in five? Surely Trevor Trent, acknowledgeda brilliant translator by his severest critics, had notshunted his latter-day work upon her shoulders for naught!She would look higher for employment; would climb to aplace where morals were disciplined by minds.

She was sipping from the thick cup the last thin drop.A chunky man, in rising from the next chair, dropped hisnewspaper on the floor. Of such figure that he might notrecover it without inconvenience, he stepped upon andover it. Dolores picked it up and called to him. But eitherhe was through with it, or did not wish to concede his lackof equipoise. Despite the waddle with which he went outthe door, Dolores regarded him as a god—the paper his gift.She began to turn its pages in search of the “Help Wanted”columns.

As chanced, she did not read the close-print pleas. Apicture on the last page distracted her—a bold, drawn-from-lifesketch of herself which was its own indictment of theflimsy garb in which she was portrayed.

Dolores’ pleasure in the crullers receded into the distantpast. Gone were the strong thoughts sipped from the weakbrew. Of what use to look higher when placarded as solow? Any one might recognize her now. With her papernapkin she brushed away the mist that had gathered beforeher eyes and bent to the type which surrounded the cut.

Dolores Trent, subject of the sketch, was recommendedto the reader’s interest as the principal in a lingerie shopscandal reported in detail in another column. That the incidentwas to be made the cause of a reform in the use ofhuman merchandise was promised in a spirited interviewwith John Cabot, noted financier, who had preferred acharge of assault against Vincent Seff, the offending shopkeeper.

In the column referred to, the girl found a detailedreport of the impromptu scene which had followed theplaylet of “The Little Old Lady of Lorraine,” a paragraphof speculation upon her own disappearance and anotherwhich declared that the beautiful Mrs. John Cabot wasconfined to her home in a state of nervous collapse becauseof the notoriety brought on the family by her husband’sbehavior.

Dolores crumpled the newspaper and threw it into theself-service trash basket. She had better cause to relinquish*t than the over-fat god!

Out upon the street, she foresaw other relinquishments.Small use was there for her to seek employment untilto-day’s news had passed into the discard of several yesterdays.Doubtless this story, rather than direct word fromthe Seff shop, had brought about the morning’s summaryeviction. Well might she expect to remain roomless until alapse of time had lessened chances of comparison betweenher face and the sketch. More harm than help had beenworked by the volunteer protectorate of Mr. John Cabot,who unfortunately was of social importance or he would nothave been given such space in the news. And that imaginedkiss which had soothed her slumbers in the pristine dawn—whyits false assurance of security?

Was it fancy or fact that people were staring at her?Probably she did look strange. Well-dressed young girlsdid not saunter, traveling bags in hand. Not noting inwhat direction, she hastened her steps. She must appearto be bound somewhere, as if to meet someone.

In truth, she was. She felt her arm seized in a stronggrip; heard a voice in brogue reproving her.

“Battlin’ bantham, woman, where’d you get it so earlyin the mornin’—or was it, now, so late last night?”

In cross-cutting a juncture of car-tracks already congested,Dolores had tripped and been forcefully thrown intothe arms of a policeman. As he escorted her toward thecurb, she assured him that his first conclusion about herwas wrong. She had been trying to think and hurry at thesame time, that was all.

He was a fine specimen of the city’s choice, young, wellset-up, weather-bronzed. He begged her pardon for hismistake. When he turned to leave her Dolores had asudden sense of loss.

“If you please——”

She caught his arm and gazed up at him, her lips uncertainover what next to say.

He showed surprise at her touch and look, but leaned toher. And as he leaned, red color waved across his tan.

“Faith,” he said, “I’d hate to meet you goin’ home atnight!”

At once Dolores regretted her impulse. Unless shewished to be further mistaken, however, she must continue.

“If you were a girl and needed work,” she asked, “howshould you go about getting it?”

More slowly than it had come, the color receded fromthe young policeman’s face. With a deliberate movement,he lifted her hand off his arm.

“Miss, my baby’s not a year yet and her eyes are blue,but they’ve got something the look of your own.” He addedthe advice she had asked. “If I was a girl and a girl likeyou, sure I’d lock myself in my satchel until I got off Broadway.The satchel I’d check in some regular employmentagency and there I’d stay until I got me job. There’s onein the next block, kept by an Irisher friend of mine whoain’t half as bad, believe me, as her near-French accent. Askfor Madame Marie Sheehan, née Mrs. Mary Shinn, andtell her Donovan O’Shay recommended you to her. Here,I’ll write it down.”

Upon a police pad whipped from beneath his uniform,he scribbled hurriedly; tore off the sheet; pressed it intoher hand. With a kindly, “best o’ luck to you, miss,” hedived back into the traffic tide.

Dolores watched him disappear in the rush of it withadmiration for more than his physique. She appreciatedhim more than she might have done two weeks ago. Athrill of pride tingled through her that the city, her wonderfulNew York, could choose so well.

Too bad, when she felt such confidence in him, that hisname and the penciled slip were not the practical present aidhe thought! To apply at a “regular” employment agencyshe would need a better reference than the too graphic onepressed upon her by the morning paper. The slip she placedcarefully in her purse. “Née Mary Shinn” she would regardas to-morrow’s possibility, rather than the risk of to-day.

But she could and did follow other of his advices. Sheturned off the broad white way, proved to be so narrowand so dark; walked briskly eastward.

Perhaps it was the warning of the young Celt, whosegirl-baby’s eyes had “something the look” of her own, thatawoke in Dolores the desire to get back among the sort ofpeople with whom she had lived. Soon she left thecross street and turned north along one of the small-numberedavenues.

Somehow she had ceased to feel the strangeness of herposition; scarcely seemed thinking at all, except for a vagueworry over why she was not worrying. A quite unreasonablesense that she would happen upon some recognizablesign-post to her immediate future possessed her. She becamecheerful, as though some one she trusted had madeher a promise of help.

Over the door of a substantial building of corner-lot dignity,she stopped to read this placard:

RESCUE HOME
CHURCH OF ALL MANKIND

Of neither church nor home had she ever heard, butsurely she needed rescue as urgently as could any of mankind.She climbed the stone steps; rang the bell.

The door was opened by a negro boy. At her hesitantquestion he ushered her into a business-like office. A plain-facedgirl, who looked to be about Dolores’ own age, satbehind a typewriter, busy with a stick of chewing gumand a newspaper. Through an inner door appeared awoman who introduced herself as the matron of the home.

Dolores ended her story with the death of her father andher consequent need of a place to stay until she could findemployment. She did not notice that the stenographer hadleft them until that industriously-chewing young personbeckoned to the matron from the private office.

“Just wait a few minutes,” said the older woman asshe rose. “I have an idea we can help you.”

Only the buzz of their low-voiced conversation carriedthrough the half-closed door. When the matron returnedshe carried in her hand a copy of the same newspaper overwhich the too-fat god of the restaurant had not dared riskhis dignity. She peered over her glasses at the applicant,then through them at the last-page illustration.

“You are quick at faces, Gracie,” she said to her aide.To Dolores: “I am sorry, Miss—ah—Trent, but I doubtyour sincerity in asking our sort of help. Already you haveviolated our first rule—absolute frankness. This journalexplains better than you have done why you need cover ina respectable place. I’m afraid you would not feel at homehere.”

“Not in them clothes,” contributed Gracie.

“My dear!” Then again to Dolores: “We do not wishto seem unresponsive to the needs of any unfortunate, butthere is a great deal behind my decision. Good morning,Miss Trent.”

“Good morning.”

Dolores accepted the matron’s decision quietly, as shehad the previous rebuffs of her life, and started toward thedoor.

“Are you leaving, my child?”

The voice was strong yet mellifluous. Dolores saw surveyingthem from the dark background of the hall a manin clerical clothes. He looked to be middle-aged; was ofmedium height, medium weight, medium coloring. Fromhim, however, flowed an extraordinary personality. Nosmile showed beneath his brown mustache or in his agate-coloredeyes, yet he beamed with beneficence.

“Yes, Dr. Willard,” the matron answered. “The younglady deliberately deceived me as to her identity. Possiblyyou have not run through the morning papers. This picturewill tell you more quickly than I can explain why I——”

Dolores’ impulse was to continue into the hall, but sheas well as the matron stopped at the clergyman’s gesture.

“I haven’t seen this one, no,” he admitted, studying thesketch interestedly, then the girl herself. “There are photographsof her, however, in three of the other papers. She issketchable—very sketchable.”

“Knowing how the home has been imposed upon in thepast, you will, I am sure, approve my decision,” the matroncontinued in her calm, competent way. “With so many init whom we hope to influence to high standards, fair-playforbids that we allow it to be made a free hotel for the convenienceof a class who make sport of its object. One badexample spoils a dozen good. I feel very strongly on thissubject, doctor.”

“Yes, I know. You always feel strongly.”

No sarcasm showed in his voice or look. His rebuke wasthe more telling because so quietly put.

“I shall not interfere with your decision in this case sofar as concerns the Home. But as pastor of the Church ofAll Mankind, I do not feel that I should permit generalitiesto affect my personal interest in cases. Surely ‘all mankind’includes girlhood, the future of the Nation. Comewith me, young lady. I’ll see what we can do for you.”

All within five minutes, Dolores found herself usheredinto the private office of the autocrat of the institution whosedoors had been closing upon her.

That there was a crack in her cup of content had come tobe a belief of Dolores Trent. From her earliest remembrancethere always had seemed to be more or less ofseepage. Nevertheless, as protégé of Dr. Alexander Willard—hispet charity, he called her—she felt that the waste shouldcease.

The Church of All Mankind was a granite pile whichdid proud the outward religious show of its parishioners.From a height it returned serenely the troubled gaze of theHudson. Its lawns suggested that each blade of grass wasespecially endowed. Behind the auditorium, with its wide-welcomedoors, arched memorial windows and statued nichesfor the more generous benefactors, had been erected a two-story,utilitarian annex. Of the same stone and generalarchitectural lines as the church proper, this contained,in addition to lecture, board and office rooms, the pastor’sstudy.

Here Dolores had been installed on the day of her“rescue” from the East Side home which ranked first amongthe charities of All Mankind. Here she soon had learnedto manipulate a typewriter with sufficient speed to take lettersfrom dictation and prepare large-type pulpit copies of thesensational sermons for which Dr. Willard was widelyknown. Here, in brief, she had mastered the preliminariesof a secretaryship.

Despite frequent praise of her aptitude, her grasp ofEnglish and a natural facility in the creation of oratoricaleffects, she somehow could not cease to regard her employmentas providential and the reverend doctor as her personalProvidence. “The lower they sink, the higher we lift them”—thathad been his comment on refusing to hear her attemptedexplanation of the shop scandal. Neither would herecognize any connection between his initiative in her behalfand the fact that the John Cabots were hereditary membersof his congregation.

The rescue matron’s bigotry he had deplored as “a pinch”in a nature usually broad. To err was human, he reportedhimself as having told her, but she must not be humanin the same way again. To his wider vision, the Home hadbeen established for just such as Dolores Trent. He hadthe girl to thank, not she him, for the chance to prove hisphilanthropy.

Provided with the very sort of work for which she wasbest fitted and housed comfortably in the apartment of oneof those humbler parishioners always attached to richchurches, she realized one mid-morning, less than a monthafter the Seff debacle, that she still was in a state of discontent.Alone in the study, she paused in her copyingto take herself to task.

Why be so unappreciative as not to be happy? Her immediatepredecessor, for whom she had felt inclined to be sorry,had lost the position because, as Dr. Willard explained, shewasn’t appreciative.

The only manifest reason for her state of mind lay inthe stuffed animals and birds, slain by the distinguishedclergyman on his hunting trips, with which the room wasgiven individuality. Over the fireplace was hung a magnificentlyantlered moose head. A glass-eyed doe, a pairof stuffed foxes and lesser game stood about in naturalattitudes. From the ceiling various birds strove on wires,as though in flight. Particularly lifelike was a fine specimenof lynx, posed ready to spring just within thedoor.

Although the new secretary had heard many complimentspaid this trophy collection and had read her employer referredto as “Dr. Nimrod” and “The Hunting Parson,” shecould not admire in him this passion for the chase. Thevery naturalness of the poor, pretty creatures made herdeplore their cut-short lives.

Often she found herself imagining the one-time fleetnessof the doe or the swish of the wind-spread wings of thegolden eagle, wired in an attitude of flying, pitiable becausenever—never would he fly again. A teasing explanation ofthe lynx’s crouch made by the doctor to a woman parishionersounded tame beside the ferocity which the taxidermist hadstuffed into the specimen.

“I keep the big cat by the door to startle my visitingladies. He gives them a sensation, hurries their blood, makesthem natural.”

Slavery to such a mission did seem hard on the lynxafter the free life he must have led to achieve his immensesize. Dolores, yielding to her fanciful mood, crossed theroom and offered him a bite from her paper-bag lunch.Crouched beside him, her arm around his neck—So theminister found her when he brisked in for a belated inspectionof the morning mail.

He gave her an indulgent smile as she sprang to her feet,but contributed no remark to her embarrassment.

She had finished taking the daily grist of replies. Dr.Willard was sitting in his chair, his feet on the hassock thatstood always before it, looking at her in a way he had towhich she could not grow accustomed. Probably he wasnot thinking of her at all—was mentally selecting the taskof next importance. Yet she had grown more than usuallyrestive under his agate-eyed, considering gaze when thebeautifully covered top-tones of a soprano voice floated tothem from the floor above.

“Ah!” Dr. Willard repeated his smile. “The membersof the music committee are having their innings.”

“Their innings, doctor?”

“They are holding try-outs for a new soprano. I expectthey’ll have difficulty finding one to suit. You likethat floating quality? It is sort of seraphic. But, dearme, there are so many requirements other than the voice tofill this position, which is probably the highest-paid for achurch soloist in Greater New York. The committee hasheard this young woman several times and all agree with meexcept Deacon Brill. He’s the only thorn in my flesh on theboard.”

“He does seem to feel a natural antipathy toward you,”Dolores sympathized.

“Very natural.” Again that peculiarly indulgent smile.“As he is the central pillar of the church, I try not to collidewith him. You see, he has taken this singer—a good-lookinggirl in addition to her vocal charms—out to dinner. Hesays she won’t do.”

“Won’t do—and because he took her out to dinner?”

Before Dr. Willard could explain, his private telephonerang.

“You at last, my child!” he answered close to the mouthpiece.“So, he’s broken out again? I am disappointed....These attacks must be curbed in some way.... Alwayshere when you need my advice.... Hum-m....The sooner the better.”

On hanging up the receiver, he turned with his invariablekindness to Dolores. “It is time you take another of thosewalks along the Drive that bring the roses into your cheeks.I have an important conference. Stay out in the air anhour or more.”

The girl put on her hat and coat. Although she suspectedthat these absences were not suggested entirely on her account,she was grateful for the half of a thought whichmade them serve two purposes. As one way of showing herappreciation, she tried always to time her strolls to his conveniencerather than her own—to return not too late forthe performance of her duties, nor soon enough to interruptthe “conferences” continually held with handsomely gownedwomen of the congregation. Never did she reënter thestudy until the limousine or touring car which had broughtthe visitor of the hour had purred away from the side door.

To-day she found the parkway paths delightful. A tingeof winter in the air showed in the white breath of the rivercraft scudding along against the tide. They always seemeda moral to Dolores, those boats scudding along againstthe tide.

A thought of the work piled on her desk cut her walkto a scant hour. To her disappointment a gray town-carstood at the annex curb. Inside she strolled up the corridors,wondering where she should wait. Around a turn she cameupon Mr. Brill, the over-fleshed, over-moneyed and over-old“thorn” in Dr. Willard’s flesh. Evidently the deacon wastaking a respite from the choir trial to enjoy a cigar. Ashe had been most affable on the several occasions when shehad met him in the pastor’s study, Dolores greeted himpleasantly.

“Caught me, didn’t you, Miss Trent?” he returned, a bad-boygrin slinking up his baggy cheeks. “You won’t tell ona poor addict who prefers Lady Nicotine to some lady sopranos?”

“Would that be anything to tell, Mr. Brill? Dr. Willardfairly clouds the study. I don’t see any harm in smoking.”

“I suppose you don’t see harm in anything Dr. Willarddoes?” Although the “central pillar” shook with mirth, hiseyes strained at her through the double-lens glasses fastenedwith a black ribbon to his lapel. “Wouldn’t you, now, joinme in a puff or two or three?”

“No, sir. No, thank you,” said Dolores.

“Don’t be silly. You just said you see no harm in it.Everybody smokes nowadays, the women as much as themen.”

“I know, Dr. Brill, but——”

“But if you have scruples, I’ll be only too glad to swearthat I won’t tell. Come, we’ll have a little social puff andchat.”

Dolores tried to be good-natured, even when he grippedher arm and propelled her into one of the small committeerooms. When, however, he took from a gold case a slender,perfumed cigarette, lighted it and essayed to place it betweenher lips, resentment moved her.

“Really, Mr. Brill, I never have smoked and I don’t careto begin now. I—I must be getting back to my work.”

As she started from the room he lunged across a tableand caught her.

“But I am here to show you how. One lifts the terriblething in the fingers, so——”

His pudgy left arm caught hers. The smaller fingers ofhis dimpled right hand pressed up her chin. Thumb andforefinger sought to force between her set teeth the lip-wetsmoke. When she realized that his foot was trying to pushshut the door, an emotion new to Dolores suddenly controlledher.

“I don’t wish to smoke, I tell you. I don’t wish to beshown.”

With the indignant words she beat him upon the face andchest until he fell back gasping.

“Aha, a wild-cat is Nimrod’s latest trophy—a live one,at that!”

Dolores remembered his chuckled comment after she hadforced back the door and rushed from the committee room.Down the corridor and around a turn to the study she ranwithout one backward glance.

Beside the couchant lynx she stopped, startled as lookedthe couple she had interrupted. Within a scant foot of eachother stood Dr. Willard and a woman whom, somewhere,she had seen before.

“I beg your pardon, but I——”

Dolores’s apology stumbled as the visitor turned directlytoward her. An exquisite creature she was, slenderin her close-wrapped blue velvet, a haloesque effect createdaround her silver-gold hair by the sunlight shafting from ahigh window. Her blue, plumed hat lay upon a nearbychair.

Dr. Willard raised a calming hand.

“My child!”

The emphasis laid on the familiar words as addressed tothe girl gave them an unfamiliar ring.

Then: “Mrs. Cabot, this is my new secretary, MissTrent.”

Dolores’ response to the introduction was automatic. Shefelt confused, distressed. What an evil chance to have cutshort a clergyman’s advices to the great lady reported to havebeen prostrated already by notoriety suffered on her account!A rude return it seemed to the husband who had befriendedher.

CHAPTER IX

Dolores need have felt no anxiety over what she shouldsay. Mrs. Cabot said everything—and more.

“You philanthropists, will you ever get enough? Or aren’tthere that many?”

The short-lipped, mouse-toothed, childlike smile withwhich she turned from her pastor to settle her hat in themirror was reflected toward them. At the door she bowedcomposedly to Dolores and gave Dr. Willard her hand.

“In return for your wise counsel over my domestictroubles, dear doctor, the favor you ask is small. Trustme. I’ll steal upstairs, as if overwhelmingly attracted bythe music. But remember—you have assured me that youlike the quality of her singing voice only because some oneelse does not like the super-quality with which she speaks.”

After she had gone, Dr. Willard sank into the paddedleather chair and gazed out the window. He looked disturbed;bit his lip, as if trying to control vexation; waggledhis right foot as he was wont to do when nervous.

Dolores crossed the room, hesitated a moment before him,then sank upon the hassock placed conveniently in front ofhis chair.

“Scold me—I’d rather you would!” she exclaimed, a catchin her voice. “I shouldn’t have burst in on your conferencethat way, but I just couldn’t help it. I was so angry thatI—I——”

“Angry? You, my child?”

So cleared of all vexation were the yellow-brown eyesbent to her imploring look, that Dolores began to stammerout the cause of her agitation. When her head dropped toher hands upon his knee, he reached out and patted her onthe shoulder, very, very kindly.

“Poor orphan. Poor child,” he encouraged her. “I amindignant that such a scene could be forced upon an inexperiencedgirl within these walls. No matter how great maybe Deacon Brill’s influence in the temporal affairs of thechurch, I shall bring him to book in my own time and myown way. Do not fear to tell me all.”

Dolores told him.

Shaken from her usual reticence, she also told him ofher feeling of aloneness since her father had died and thepositive fear that was growing in her—fear of the worldand its ways.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “the unpleasant things whichhave happened to me are partly my own fault.”

“Your fault? You feel you have faults?” A glint lightedthe agate gaze as he questioned her.

“I lack,” she confessed, “religion. It was left out of mylife. My father was, I think, embittered against it. He wasvery good to me, but he didn’t send me to Sunday schoolany more than to public school. Perhaps if he had, I’dhave grown up more like other girls—more self-reliant, lessafraid.”

“And less yourself,” he objected. “You have, I think,remarkable self-control.”

“You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say so, Dr.Willard. That has been my only religion—self-control. Itis very strange that a person to whom I never spoke—whomI never saw but once—gave me the ambition to learn it.”

At his show of interest, Dolores recited the incident. “Iwas quite a small girl, eight or nine, I guess. My fatherhad left me to wait in a railway station one day. I wasworried because often he—because I was afraid we’d missour train. There was a lady sitting near me, also waiting.I took to watching her.

“She was attractive and wore nice clothes. I becamefascinated by the way she breathed, not out and in, as I hadsupposed all people did, but up and down. The lace jaboton her breast would move up and down, up and down.Of course, as I grew older, I realized that she breathed thatway from tight lacing. But at the time it seemed to me morerefined than the common way. And then I saw that shewas going to sneeze. I’ve always hated to see people sneeze—theymake such a fuss. But this lady prepared. She wasquite calm. The jabot lifted high with the breath she took.At the vital moment she was ready.”

“And did she sneeze, my poor child?”

“Oh, yes, doctor, but so neatly. She just leaned out anddid it without any fuss at all. Afterward, she didn’t sniffor even wipe her eyes. She was very wonderful. I oftenthink of her.”

Shyly Dolores glanced up to see if the great intelligencehad anticipated her point.

“The station was draughty. When my turn came, Ibreathed up and down and prepared. I made up my mindto sneeze the lady’s way. And I did. And afterward, theambition to sneeze her way applied to other things—decidedme to take the draughts of life neatly—to be prepared andmake no fuss. I try and try, Dr. Willard. But I guessself-control is not enough. Don’t you think people wouldunderstand me better if I had your religion? Is it too latefor me to learn it now?”

“Emphatically not, you fatherless child.” The doctorapparently had been touched by her conversational offering.Real feeling quivered on the face bent over hers. “And thereare other comforts it is not too late for you to learn. Leanyour lonely heart against mine. Let me teach you a father’slove.”

“If you would—oh, if you only would!” She seized hishands and pressed one cheek against them. “It is so easy tolearn from one you absolutely trust.”

“Don’t trust anyone absolutely. I fear at times that yourrating of me is too high.” Humility tore from her reverentialregard the pastor’s eyes, although his hands shookwith appreciation of her praise. “Remember how everythingfinite that goes up must come down. Only the soul canascend and stay on high. The flowers that lift their headsto bloom must wither and die. The lightest feather in themost buoyant breeze eventually returns to the earth fromwhich it blew.”

“But it is my soul you will exalt, dear Dr. Willard.”

At her reminder, one of his hands moved to where its palmfitted over the ball of her shoulder.

“Let me be a father to you. Yes, let me be a father toyou,” he kept repeating. The while, his palm pressed hershoulder, began to move around and around.

“And you’ll teach me your religion?”

Dolores’ head threw back in exhilarating hope. As oneperforms small acts in the largest moments, she plucked along, silver-gold hair off the black cloth of his coat. In thesame motion, despite her boasted control of impulse, herhand continued around his neck.

“My religion, child? I’ll gladly teach if you—if youcare to learn,” he responded, drawing her to him in a closeand closer embrace.

“It means safety to me—everything. You won’t find medull. I believe I shall learn readily from you.”

“I believe—you could.” The palm over the ball of hershoulder pressed harder; moved faster. “But, dear daughter,don’t place me or any man upon too high a pedestal,lest we fall—lest we fall.”

“I am sure——” To avoid contradicting her mentor, thepupil altered the form of her statement. “I hope that younever will fall.”

“And I hope—you don’t get—that hope!”

With the hoarse exclamation, Dr. Willard rose to his feet,drew the girl after him and clutched her with a vehemencethat made them stand as one. Before she could drawaway her face or realize that suddenly she was again afraid,she felt his mustache against her cheek.

“We’ll seal the bargain, my child. Just the kiss of afather—the kiss of a father,” he rasped close to her ear.

The insult crushed upon her mouth was not, however,fatherly. The unequal struggle started by it was of nospiritual excitation. How she wrenched herself away fromhim; how he headed off her rush toward the door; howshe eluded his clutching pursuit in and out among the otheryoung animals he had trapped; how she escaped from theirstumble over the couchant lynx, left him panting on the floor,ran screaming like the hunted thing he had made of herinto the corridor and up the first flight of stairs——

The full horror of what had happened did not come toher until she stood before the astonished music committee.Her hair dishevelled, her waist torn open down the front, herdiscretion in shreds, she flamed upon them.

“When even a minister of the gospel can’t be trusted,where—where am I to go?”

That Mrs. Cabot still was with them further unnervedher. Collapsing into a chair, struggling with hysteria, shesobbed out her denunciation. When able to look among thefaces of the group gathered about her, she saw that all weregrave excepting two. Mrs. Cabot looked entertained, Mr.Brill triumphant.

The manner that befits an occasion gave the deacon greaterweight as he turned to address his colleagues.

“Brothers, I have long suspected that the feet of the godset up by this congregation are of clay. I hesitated to voiceso distressing a thought, lest I err. None of you, however,can doubt the testimony just heard and seen. The hardest-heartedof you can have only pity for the courageous youngwoman who has exposed this aide of the Evil One. Dumbfoundedthough you may be, I ask you to act with me now—atonce. There is not space within these hallowed walls tohouse both him and me. Five minutes should give him timeto choose between a church trial or immediate resignation.In either case, it is important that we give the news to ParkRow at once, before he who is so fond of sensation hastime to discredit us. Brothers, shall we wait upon thepastor in the sanctum which he has so disgraced?”

While the honest laymen of All Mankind discussed thisdrastic proposal, Brill addressed himself to the girl.

“A man can scarcely be expected to understand the outragedstate of your feelings, Miss Trent. But at least I realizethat you must shrink from the idea of facing that wolf insheep’s clothing again. I’ll send your wraps up here. Also,it seems to me inadvisable for your own sake that you remainin the employ of the church. In this envelope I have sealedthe equivalent of a month’s wages.... Oh, do not hesitateto take it! Notice or money is due a dismissed employee.”

Glancing over-shoulder and seeing that the committee hadcongregated near the door in animated argument, he madehis considerable figure the silencer of a low-voiced apology.

“Sorry I teased you about the cigarette, little girl. I hadan object which you did not at the time suspect—to discover,through you, more about that scoundrel. I was tryingyou out, just as the soprano was being tried out upstairs,to see whether he had got you into the bad habit of smoking.Didn’t blame you at all when you scratched and bit,so you mustn’t hold it against me. You appear to be ayoung woman of sterling character—a mighty good littlegirl.”

Bending and beaming, he patted her on the head. Theeyes wontedly so nondescript above the billowy face andcascade of chins, squinted through their double lenses benevolently.

“You’ll be wanting other employment,” he added in stilllower tones, as if not wishing his right hand to know. “Now,I advise something of a—well, you know, of a littlemore secular nature. Take this card, my dear. See thatyou arrive at the address on it about ten to-morrow morning.Perhaps I’ll be able to find you a berth where I can keepa friendly eye on you. You’ll come?”

As he waddled out in the wake of his peers, Dolores heardhim continue: “About that matter of the soprano, brothers,I withdraw my objection. Trouble often brings a changeof heart and I feel that we should stand together now in allthings. Especially since Sister Cabot is so decided in heragreement with you, I’ll try to enjoy the young lady’s voice,although I still think her too old for that churchly, newly-awakened-souleffect. I always hold myself open to conviction.”

She also overheard his throaty chortles over the taunt ofMrs. Cabot: “To younger and prettier convictions, youmean, Deacon?”

Alone, Dolores stared dazedly down at the envelope andcard she held. Things happened so suddenly, once they began,she thought. Only this morning she had chided herselffor discontent with her settled state. Now everything wasunsettled again. As she had cried out to the committee, whatmanner of man dared she trust?

One of them had answered. The card——

Up to the light she held it. Upon it was engraved thename and downtown business address of Deacon Brillhimself.

“You’ll come?” he had asked, voice, eyes, billows exudingloving kindness.

Even more urgently she asked herself: “Shall I go?”

Next morning Dolores bought all the papers, determinedto learn the worst. Several of the more conservative merelymentioned that the Rev. Dr. Alexander Willard had resignedthe pastorate of the Church of All Mankind. One suggestedsignificant detail behind the surprising act. Stillanother stated that the Eminent Divine would demand anecclesiastical trial and introduced the name of the youngsecretary whom he, disregarding a certain premonishing contretemps,had sheltered within his church home.

The most sensational journal of all uncovered a photographof the young lady in the case and reviewed the lingerie-shopscandal referred to by the discredited clergyman. Thiswas featured beneath the heading:

TOO STRONG FOR
DR. NIMROD’S SPORTING BLOOD

Would the denomination he had served allow his reputationto be charred by the brand he had tried so conscientiouslyto pluck from the burning? So Rev. Willard wasquoted as having demanded in an exclusive interview.Would any fair-minded congregation take, against his, theword of an adventuress who so lately had been the examplefor a reform movement instituted by one of theirmost prominent parishioners, Mr. John Cabot? Was heto be blamed that he had assumed the sincerity of All Mankind’sideals and had sought to make his charity wide as itsword? To save himself for sake of future good that hemight do, he would reveal, if forced, the overtures towardhim of this unholy creature. As a sacred duty he wouldshow his world which of the two was more sinned againstthan sinning.

“A menace to men”—as such Dolores Trent was pointedout by the reprimanding finger of the press.

Deacon Brill’s threat of Park Row had swerved from thesheep-clothed wolf to her. Whether or not Dr. Willard losthis pulpit, the harm to his secretary already was done.

In the little room found for her by her quandam benefactor,a room in whose chintz-hung cosiness she had delighted,Dolores decided upon her immediate course. Therewere young daughters in the family of the poor parishioner.For their sakes, she would “fold her tents” before asked todo so and, silently as she might, steal away. Thanks to savingsfrom her salary and that final payment in lieu of“notice,” she was more affluent than ever before in her life.She would go, then. But where?

Opening her purse, she took out a business card and consideredit as well as its kind-spoken donor. She would come?That had been Deacon Brill’s last question. In the absenceof alternative——

With sudden decision, she tore the card into bits andflung them into the waste basket. Probably she didn’tunderstand men—that had been her thought. But she didunderstand and did believe in the up-floating purity of thevoice of that soprano who had gone to dinner with themusic committee’s over-fleshed chairman—the young ladywho wouldn’t do.

No alternative?

The moment she cast aside what had seemed her onlychance, she found another in her fingers. Almost had sheforgotten the address given her by Patrolman DonovanO’Shay and tucked away in her purse. For weeks she hadnot thought of his “near-French” friend, Madame MarieSheehan. Discounted by distance was her reason for postponinga visit to the employment office. Since her own judgmentseemed always wrong, she would try the policeman’s.She would check herself in her “satchel” until the fates, “néeMary Shinn,” should see fit to provide.

“Madame’s” French certainly was bad. There were advantages,however, in the long lapses between the selectionof one word and her advance to the next. Dolores had ampletime to translate the high-voiced utterances overheard fromthe inside room.

“Ah, but no! I fit the applicant to the position, not theposition to the applicant. So long you have been lacking theemployment. So quite joyful should you be for anything.The call for companions is rare, very. One, two, threeapplicants have I booked before that you come. This positionI so kindly extend——”

“I tell you, nothing doing!” the interruption came in emphatic,current American. “I was a governess two daysonce. I tell you I’d rather try the streets. Children ain’thuman beings. They’re devils, say I.”

“The devil? Ah, but no, no! More unto an angel is thisexquisite child. Could you once see those curls of gold,those turquoise eyes! The parents are from money madeand them I have promised a governess to-day.”

“Well, you redeem your promise at the expense of somebodyelse. I’ll be back to-morrow for my job. Good dayto you, Madame Shinn!”

If the sneer of this would-be companion, thought Dolores,was a sample of her companionableness, small wonder thatshe was out of a position.

No hesitation held the girl in waiting. Ignorant of therules of such offices, unmindful of the dour-visaged hope-lornawaiting their turn on the benches of the outer room,she brushed past the departing aspirant into madame’spresence.

“Won’t you let me have that position?” she asked in lieuof introduction. “I love children. I know I’d suit. I don’tcare so much about the pay or——”

“So too fast you go!” interrupted née Shinn. “You lookbut the infant yourself. And the qualifications——”

“Of course you couldn’t be expected to know it yet, dearmadame, but I am qualified. As for education—Listen, Ishall speak in three languages!” Under impetus of theunwonted initiative ruling her, Dolores switched from Englishto French, then to Italian as she urged: “I am young,yes, but that is why I need a home. And what companionshipwould be safer for me than that of a child such as thisgolden-haired little girl you describe? Once madame wasas young as I. Was she ever, perchance, alone in theworld?”

“Mademoiselle is marvelously a linguist,” admitted Mrs.Shinn, although confusion from more than the foreign wordssat upon her broad features. “Have you also the excellentreferences?”

Momentarily the girl’s new-found assurance stumbled.Then again was she inspired.

“I have, indeed, a par-excellent one.”

Her Spanish—a creditable attempt at a fourth language—maynot have been comprehensible to the agency woman, butDonovan O’Shay’s scribble was. A good-natured smile wavedin like a flag her native tongue.

“A friend of Don’s are you, then, my chérie? Sure, ifyou’re as good as that boy’s heart, you’re O. K.!”

Motherly instructions and penciled directions followedDolores’ payment of the fee. If she’d just “speak up,” now,to Mrs. M. P. Morrison of No. —— Fifth Avenue as shehad to madame herself, she stood a chance of overcomingnatural objections to her youth and inexperience.

The glow of anticipated victory did not leave Dolores’face at first sight of Mrs. Morrison’s mansion, although itwas something of a shock. Nothing should frighten hernow. She had made one friend—a woman friend. Shemight—she must make another.

Briskly as though prepared for the block-front display oflawn, unusual even on this avenue of extravagance, sheturned in through the center gateway. Under the bare treeswhich she knew to be so costly a luxury, she hurried, as iffearful that some late-clinging leaf might mistake her importanceand honor her head. Past clumps of drying hydrangeas,past a fountain which still defied the freeze ofwinter with rainbow spray, past a marble dryad of a cynicalsmirk afterwards acutely remembered, she found herself confrontedby a well-balanced marble pile. Without a pause,lest trepidation weaken her, she descended the steps to theground-floor entrance and pressed the bell.

An elderly gentleman, of such distinguished appearancethat she felt he must be the master of the house himself,opened the door. After inspection of Madame Sheehan’scard, he escorted her across a galleried entrance hall of aluxury and loftiness well-nigh incredible. At the rear, hethrew open the door of a small parlor, cheerful from itswindow-boxed blooming geraniums. Mrs. Morrison wouldbe down, he told her.

Dolores’ wait was not long. The tap-tap of high heelsupon the marble foyer outside brought her to her feet. She“spoke up” according to instructions and tried to recall theassurance which had carried her past the rules—and theFrench—of née Shinn. She stressed her education and the“way” she was said to have with children, especially withlittle girls.

The more she talked, however, the more serious lookedthe woman whom she hoped to make her friend.

“I am afraid,” said Mrs. Morrison, “that the case hasbeen misrepresented. Strange, when I explained to MadameSheehan myself, on my trip among the agencies thismorning! The child for whom I need a governess is not agirl and has anything but the amiable disposition accreditedto him.”

“Madame’s French must have misled me.” Dolores choseto ignore the particulars of “those curls of gold, those turquoiseeyes,” evidently mere chimera of a Hibernian imagination.At the suggestion of failure she all the more cravedsuccess. “It does not especially matter that he is not a girl.He is a child, isn’t he?”

Mrs. Morrison glanced rather suspiciously at her. “Idon’t know. The last governess called him a fiend. You aredifferent from the sort we have had and expected again. Iscarcely know what to say. You look a sweet-dispositionedgirl, but are very young. Perhaps I’d better leave thedecision to——”

Laughter and spirited repartee in the voices of a man anda woman sounded pleasantly from the hall. They seemedto decide her. She arose; crossed to the door; paused brieflyto say: “His mother has just come in from her ride. Perhapsshe will speak with you.”

“His mother? But—I thought—that you——”

Dolores, again alone, began to understand. Of courseMrs. Morrison was the housekeeper. That explained thefirst-floor parlor, the neat black taffeta of her dress and hersubdued manner. A third application for the coveted positionmust be made.

When, next moment, the door was pushed wide, she didnot rise. She had not the strength. A woman in a smarthabit of black velvet coat and white cloth breeches had clatteredin, crop in hand.

“Master Jack’s mother will speak with you, Miss Trent,”introduced the housekeeper.

Still Dolores found her limbs weaker than her will. Sheclung to both arms of the chair and waited for the realsponsor for the “fiend-child” to speak.

She—the mother—was Mrs. Cabot.

CHAPTER X

His Majesty himself dropped the curtain on the earth-playof the spirit-girl.

“The only real value of a story is its effect upon yourself,”he said. “I must have an interval in which to judge theworth of yours.”

At the time Dolores felt relieved, although he had notconfused her with the interruptions and insistence of theprevious séance. He had allowed her to tell her storyher own way, swiftly and simply, and showed a positivegravity of attention over the ecclesiastic incidents.

Not until the next night came and went without the callfor a third installment, did she suspect that he had beenmerely bored.

When a second night passed with the same significantomission and, after that, a third, fear possessed her.

Had she, then, fallen short of his expectations? Had shedone what he had warned her not to do—had she failed?

She took to staying in her chamber and hoping for hissummons more than previously she had dreaded it. Overher babe she would hover the hours away, brooding ratherthan rejoicing at each cooed assurance that the infant-shadewas content. Would the price of the respite be paid in partby the blameless soul of her soul?

To her here, through the guarded gossip of the proudAdeline, came reports of a direful activity on the part ofthe King. Never had he been more exacting, more mercilessin his reversal of punishment for reward. His dispositionof that first evening during which she had waited in vainseemed directly inspired by her reminiscences of the parsonperson. In an open-air camp-meeting, “His Damnity” hadpreached the first of seven announced “sermons” to a vastconcourse. Seven, it seemed, was the perfect number—aroyal superstition. Hadn’t she counted his seven courtiers,the seven windows of the throne-room, seven courses at dinner,seven days in his week?

Adeline admitted herself to have been a unit of the congregationof fiends. The first sermon had been, to say theleast, impressive. Satan’s text had been orthodox: “A starfell from Heaven unto the earth; and to him was given thekey of the bottomless pit.” He had attacked the letter ofThe Law. To be saved by “believing”—how vain a promisewhen to that Star of Heaven was given the key to the pitinto which all eventually would be hurled who had beenborn heirs to sin!

Over Omnipotent Egotism he had ranted himself into arage which had made his audience tremble. Fire flashedfrom his nostrils, his eyes, his finger-tips, as he comparedhis own indefatigable assertiveness with the retirement intothe Light of the Great-I-Am. How dare He sit back, smugover his one noteworthy achievement—the Creation?

The Law of Redemption, pah! What were laws that werenot enforced—mere vague threats of a future state? Heasked consideration of the handling of his own first lawas keeper of the pit key. Did he ever delay collection of thewages of sin? Angel worship was forbidden and he didn’texpect them to worship him. But they could fear him and,fearing, must serve him. He advised them to hitch theirhope-wagons to that fallen star—“their archangel in eclipseand the excess of glory obscured.”

Truly this departure in infernal propaganda must havebeen fearsome. Also fearsome was Dolores’ wonder overwhy she alone had not been bidden to attend. Adeline wasinclined to attribute the omission to stage fright. M’lord,remembering the standard to which his entertainer had beeneducated, feared to fall short. Having successfully tried outhis “delivery,” however, he probably would ask her to thesecond sermon of the seven.

But what of the two intervening nights? Why this surceaseof interest in the griefs which so had diverted him?

Dolores was forced to the conclusion that she had ceasedto entertain. Perhaps, even then, the evil eye was sightingher fate and the fate of her babe.

Desperation shook her from the stupor of waiting. Hehad preached action in his sermon, according to report. Shemust do something to re-arouse his curiosity. In the lateafternoon, as she knew, he often strolled in his favoritegarden of Bad Luck. She dared not ask for an appointment;no. Yet why not “happen” to meet him?

In selecting the rays in which to dress, she rememberedhis preference for purples and scarlets, rather than the moredelicate half-lights in which she would have clothed herself.But even while thanking Adeline for a grudging complimentover the blend of her robe with the purplish shadows ofher eyes, she realized the depths to which she was sinking.For the first time she understood those women of earth whoadorned themselves to enslave men whom they had come tohate. Those they feared most, they must charm. Poor, poorwomen of Earth!

In the lower reaches of the garden she came upon anillustration of her thought—a fountain effect whose centralfigure was the sculped, naked body of a woman bent beneaththe club of her man and master, on her lips a seductive smile,from her eyes spouting twin founts of electric spray—tearsof terror.

Hearing footsteps behind, Dolores stopped, as if in admirationof the ghoulish conceit. The throb of her templeswas not cooled by the hot winds with which the tropicalfoliage illusions of the garden were artificially fanned. Thesinking sensation at her heart was no sickness from the too-intenseodors of the lavish-looking bloom. The hurt of herears could not be blamed on shrieks of the peaco*cks, parrakeetsand tanagers which soundlessly strutted and wingedabout. No winds of Gehenna might discomfort her, exceptin her own acknowledgment. No odors, except from memory,might penetrate her senses from poinsettias or rhododendrons.No sound, except as she imagined it, might swell thethroats of the birds. From the rubber plants grouped at theentrance gate, through the lane of Spanish bayonets whosebarbs were a menace to one who strolled, to the fountaincalled “Fate of the Fair,” the garden was one vast stageset, a master chimera. Bad luck, then—that too must behallucination.

Courage came to Dolores with the thought. She, an immortalwoman soul, would not bow the neck to an undeservedclub. She must lift her head believing that even the windsof Hell would cool her brow; must delight in fragrances,strong from her own expectation; must open wide her earsto the Seraphs’ song of hope.

Ready to meet His Majesty, she turned. Her disappointmentwas keen as her courage to see in him who was approachingthe lame old soldier-soul, Samuel Cummings. Atfirst only his face and crutch were recognizable, so resplendentwas he in the uniform of an officer of the HadeanHordes. When he drew up before her with his old-timesalute, she counted on his forehead, branded blood-red, thestars of a general.

Her maid had told him he’d find her out here, the old chapexplained. He had come to tell her the news. His Majestyhad called him to an interview night before last and promotedhim because it was beneath the Royal dignity to conferin private with a corporal.

So Old Sam, then, had supplanted her as entertainer.

As if in answer to Dolores’ thought, he motioned withhis crutch toward a bench of opalesque stone that stood beneathan arbor of purple bourgainvillae. The honor paidhim, he declared, was only the preface to his news. Whenseated beside her, however, he seemed loathe to proceed;glanced uneasily among the flowers of an oleander bushwhich changed color with alternating currents of red andwhite.

His “news,” he at last confessed in guarded tones, concernedherself. Dangerous though a report might be, he feltone his duty. His summons into The Presence had been todiscuss her. His Highness had reintroduced the subject of“Grief to Men” and asked the veteran’s opinion on a numberof her points. Did Sam think her the most beautiful womanhe ever had seen? Did he consider her deep or just dumb?In what, according to a recent earthling, lay her chief charm?

On the whole, declared the old new general, Satan hadacted a good deal as would some human swain who wasgetting interested in a girl. With men, he wasn’t such a badsort as Sam had expected. But with women—— Therenever was any telling what—— She—she understood?

At his embarrassed glance, she nodded. What woman hadbetter reason to understand than she?

“One question he asked was why I thought you neversmiled,” the simple soul continued solemnly. “That stumpedme. As I told him, Mary Gertrude used to be one laughfrom morn till eve. ‘Odd,’ said he, ‘when she’s caused allthose griefs.’”

“I never learned to smile,” said Dolores. “My fathernever did. He used to laugh sometimes. It was terrible tohear him. But he never smiled.”

The wag of Old Sam’s head was rueful. “I don’t wantto worry you, but I feel I should tell you what he calledyou—his ‘latest flame in the land of such.’ And he askedme if I thought that a woman who had ruined so many humanscould be of any use to an immortal—some real badone, say, who had a good thing to offer her. I remindedhim of the Littlest Devil. ‘Oh, the B. B.,’ says he. ‘Likelyshe did make one of them happy for a while. That isn’twhat I mean. My thoughts of her are pure—pure as Hell.’Ma’am, I can’t figure it out any other way than that he’s gota weakness for you.”

“Please—please don’t say that!”

Dolores shuddered as though shaken by the torrid breeze,then withdrew from his side to the outmost end of the bench.Some unseen force had moved her. Grateful though shefelt for his effort to forearm her, she found herself unableto reassure him. A hateful reluctance stayed her tongue.

Came startling interpolation: “All has been overheard.”

The words were spoken in a voice which both recognized.There materialized to their vision the superb face and figureof His Satanic Majesty. He was seated between them.

“Eavesdropping is old stuff, I know,” he remarked easily,“but it never ceases to be.”

“It was you who forced me aside?” Dolores struggledwith her indignation. “I didn’t know you could make yourselfinvisible.”

“Surest thing you didn’t know, then. Turning oneself onor off is a trick that our late angel did not lose in his fall.Fancy one of the Cherubim reduced to turning himself offand on in lowlands like Gehenna!”

With angry intolerance, he faced toward General Sam.“What’s this you were saying about me? A weakness—I?”

“A man’s weakness for his woman is his strength,” thesoldier-soul contended.

“Your tongue tangles when you measure my strength bythat of men. I am——” and Satan’s glance slashed out likea sword—“I am the Destroyer. Fool, fear me!” Irritablyhe added: “Who do you think you are—Prometheus unbound?Why do you suppose I promoted you if not to getrid of you without breaking my pact with Dame Dolores?Get yourself to the nearest army camp, and make believeyou’ve earned your commission. See you stay there, too,until I send for you.”

“But what about my appointment in the palace? Whowill hold the bowl for Your Highness’ tears?”

The King arose as though further enraged by the reminder,then succumbed to a sort of paroxysm so violentthat his utterance was impeded.

“Tears—and over Dolores’ griefs to men? Now I knowyou are a fool. To have taken me seriously when I calledmyself a crocodile! I to weep—and over human nature?Excuse me, folks. Let me enjoy myself while I’m young.Honestly, I near injure my sides every time I think of whatshe put over on that high-priest of the Great-I-Am!”

Too preoccupied was he to return his new-made general’ssalute. Not until the sound of Old Sam’s peg-leg had ceasedto punctuate the pause did he reseat himself upon the bench.

“As for you, designing jade——”

In the very midst of his address, he became lost in contemplationof the royal toes. The girl-shade beside him realizedthat not once to-day had he looked directly at her.She was reminded painfully of an earthling who had beenstrong toward all his world, yet weak toward her. He mustnot have that sort of weakness for her—Satan. He mustlook at her. She leaned toward him and tried to smile.But he would not meet her eyes. Hideous it was that heshould ape the mannerism toward her of that one she hadcared for most on earth.

Long it seemed before he completed his remark.

He had her at last, he declared; had preferred not to seeor hear her again until he had her. Now he was ready totake up with her the matter of her status in Shadow Land.Had she wondered why she was the only soul about thecourt not more or less tormented? The answer was easy.Torment wasted power. He chuckled; then, on noting thathe chuckled alone, frowned. Had she no sense of humor?

At her ingenuous acknowledgment of her lack in thatrespect, the Satanic brow cleared. To know that she hadnot humor was humor in itself. Positively the most comicalthing about the story of her life was that she could be soserious over it now that she was dead. Henceforth he shouldnot expect anything in her but soul. He had a beautiful soulhimself. But he didn’t let it interfere with his daily pleasures.

At first he had attributed his interest in her to the correlativefacts that she was a fallen woman and he a fallenangel. When, later, he had come to realize her desirabilityto devils in general, he had searched for a more comprehensivereason.

To his way of looking, she was pleasant to the eye. Butbeauty was a matter of taste. To a Zulu she wouldn’tcompare with his thick-lipped, black-hued mate. The Cabot’shousekeeper, Mrs. Morrison, might be right in accreditingher with a sweet disposition. Yet weren’t unattractive girlsusually called “sweet” and “good-natured”? She appeared tobe unselfish—and where was there an attribute so tiresomein women as unselfishness? The fact that she boasted nobrilliancy was a point in her favor. The suggestion of anardent nature in those dear little wrinkles around her mouthmight be either pro or con.

In what, then, lay her lure?

He had felt he should lose respect for his intelligence ifobliged to hear to the end of her story to know. He hadfound the clue in the least important of her conquests—inhim she called the “city’s choice.” Why had that youngIrishman’s blood gushed to his face at the cling of her handupon his arm, only to recede at the look of eyes so likethose of his year-old babe? Why had he calmed into a fineprotectorate from one of those sudden physical excitementspeculiar to mortal men?

He had got her, had got her at last. And with her he hadgot the secret of her power—a secret of inestimable valueto herself. Oh, she need not look so helpless and perturbed!She need not maintain that pose with him, now that he understood.

“Exactly what is it in me——” the dark head drooped—“thatyou understand?”

He slashed out at an oleander until it blazed at him its bi-coloredfire.

“You were red and white—a human flower more attractivelycharged than any in my garden of Bad Luck.” Herose to bow before her, low and with no trace of irony.“You were an effect unique among womankind, a combinationof unconscious lust and seductive innocence. You appealedwith equal force to the bad and the good in that creatureas near devil as angel—everyman. I know. Am I notthe limit in both?”

From gay to grave his manner again changed when hesquared around and at last faced her.

“Never have I destroyed any force that works for me,”he stated. “You have powers for evil which, if developed,might rival my own. It remains with you whether thatpower increases in you or, through duress, is destroyed.Come, what do you say?”

“What can I say, when I don’t know——”

“Allow me to say it for you, then. As I have explainedin part, I need—and need in a hurry—more men souls thanI have been able to draft since the conception of my GreatIntention. Although I’ve never been above taking any outsidehelp I can get, I always have despised the retroactionupon men of women. Since Eve, the fair have been a sicklylot, more given to good influences than bad. Even the expertsdeveloped by modern sex and social problems haveshown chiefly stupidity. Not the worst of them but haveideas of bona fide reform back of the rows they’re raising.As for the vampires, real ones always have been rare. ThatCatherine Cabot, to whom you’ve called my attention, is exceptional.”

“Yes. Dr. Shayle used to say that Catherine couldn’t be‘reached’.”

“Shayle—is that the name of the ruined healer on yourpassport?”

“Oh, the world was mistaken about him, Your Majesty.Dear Clarke Shayle—he said I saved him.”

“Let us hope not, you slave to tradition!” His Highnesssnapped. “If you knew the deplorable failure I’ve madetrying to get bad results from women, you’d agree that I’dbest stick to my last—and first—the men. However, sinceyou’ve been séancing with me evenings, certain possibilitiesof making your sex serve my purposes have opened up beforeme. In the past my idea has been that the more Icould keep women under, the worse the world would be.You have changed my slogan to ‘Turn ’em loose’.”

“I?”

For a moment Satan enjoyed the admixture of humblenessand indignation in her query.

“Nice work,” he commented. “Such feminism may bemade the most dynamic evil in the universe by one whomasters it. De Maupassant thought he had, but his ideas ofwomen were limited to types of his time. I have the onemind that can look at your sex unbiased by sentiment. AsI had no mother, all women are before, none behind me.The male may go on and on indefinitely with sex villainies.But the female is likely to learn from one indecency, herSwan Song, as it were. Yet her lamentable limitations neednot discourage us, since wars have made the fair populationexceed—shall I say, the foul? ‘By their works ye shallknow them.’ Your works I know. Ergo, I know you. Unlikeyour friend of the employment agency, I fit the positionto the applicant. Here is the job I had created for you.”

He would make her manager, accountable only to himself,of the woman’s department of the mortal world; would teachher the psychology of spiritual communication, so that shemight personally direct important cases, as did he in his ownfield; would place under her charge a school of female fiendswhom she might entrust with missions on earth as soon asshe deemed them sufficiently proficient in her subtleties,even as he did his demon sleuths.

To appeal, to obtain, to destroy—was not that the missionof her sex? And yet so long had women been burden-bearers,deprived of initiative by the master’s rein and hoppledby the ultimate of man-made laws, that even he who sosorely needed them, had failed to appreciate their suppressedpower. Never would they come into their own until theylearned that their capability lay, not in trying to be whatthey were not, but in being essentially and ruthlessly whatthey were.

“Ah, wrigglier than a she-cobra’s wriggle is the female ofmy dreams!” Glowing from that ruddy mist of concentrationwhich once before Dolores had seen, His Highnesswarmed to his thought. “If all the anarchists in my incubatorswere matured, they’d be a puny menace to society andthe State as compared with women let loose. Take the punitivelaws from any class and what is the result? Riot,bestial*ty, sin. Fear is what has held women down. Takeaway fear and what will they do? They’ll master the men.Once give ’em license and they’ll soon make up for theirenforced virtue of the past. The fact that they do not originateis their best-worst trait—saves a lot of energy. Why,when I contemplate their daring, their imperviousness topain, their concentration through heredity upon the meanerissues; when I allow myself to imagine the deafening popof the bottled-up indignities poured upon them in the past—Whew!I, the First and Last, shudder in humility over myvirtues. This I give you as a prophecy: To the female ofthe species is the victory of vice.”

Dolores was lifted above fear for herself by fear forwomankind.

“For shame!” she cried.

“Shame? What is that?”

“What I feel for you, Your—Your Lowness.”

“Good! I must be getting bad. It is well that you pay mean out-loud compliment now and then, when I’m paying youwith the utmost of my unlimited power. You encourage meto proceed. Although I don’t wish you to doff your gentleways—they’ll serve as a model for your she-destroyers—youmust keep clearly in mind that our chief emotion down hereis hate—immortal hate.”

“Hate immortal? I find it hard to think of such a thing.I am sure that I never could hate for long. On Earth, Imight stay angry with some one through the day, but Icouldn’t go to sleep until I forgave.”

His Majesty scowled down at her, evidently disturbed.“It’s all right to look that idea. Of course you don’t feelit. You certainly must hate these earthlings you’re telling usabout.”

“You are wrong. I don’t hate them. Somehow I can’thate any of them.” With a catch of breath, she added: “Ifyou said immortal love, now——”

“Tut, tut, my child. Isn’t it hot enough down here?Don’t heat up my imagination.”

“But didn’t you ever feel love for anybody?”

“No, nor wouldn’t if I could. Love is weakening—orangeadefor temperance fools like General Sam. What isit anyhow? Some old scientist has defined it as ‘merely theattraction of billions of atoms, electrically charged in thesystem, corresponding to the same number of the same sortof atoms in a person of the opposite sex.’ There you haveit. What is so marvelous about that—what to make such ato-do over?”

“That definition doesn’t sound right to me.”

Dolores’ eyes gazed out over the garden with a waitinglook. It was as if, within their shadows of a purple thatshamed the bourgainvillae bloom, hope was hiding in thearbor.

The King watched her in his considering way. His armstretched along the back of the bench. When convinced thatshe had forgotten his presence, he suddenly snapped hisstrong, long fingers around the nape of her neck.

With a smothered scream, Dolores tried to shake off hisclutch. Never from a mortal man had she felt a touch sooffensive, yet so loathsomely attracting.

“Please release me. You are so—so intense!”

“Quite too intense”—Satan drew back his lips over histeeth in a bestial smile—“and in the imperative tense. Remember,Dame Dolores, that what I want, I do not ask. Itake.”

Sliding his hand down her arm, he drew her to her feet.

“Considering that, how do you like the prospect of thisHigh Priestess job?”

“I simply couldn’t do such things as you propose,” shedared his displeasure to protest. “I should fail dismally, forI am not at heart the sort you think. You say that loveweakens one, but my spirit would die, I know, if I cast loveout and tried to hate. You would be disappointed in meand your plans planned in vain. If success is what youdemand, choose some one stronger in hate than I—some onewho——”

“Playing in form to the last!” he commented. “You arewise. There really is no comparison between this appointmentand one to the Wanton’s Well or, say, the Traitors toMothers. You, by the way, are a native daughter to thelast-named state. Did that strike you the other day? Accordingto your own account, you killed your mother beforethe poor thing could so much as say ‘top o’ the morning.’”

“At least let me think it over. Let me finish the séancesfirst,” Dolores plead, under the iron of his reminder. “I amexhausted each night when they are over and busy all thenext day planning how best I may continue to entertainYour Lowness. A new undertaking might make me afailure in both.”

“There is something to that, unless——” He peereddown at her suspiciously. “You’re not aspiring to outwit meby dragging out that life story indefinitely? The new jobwill tax your concentration, no doubt of it. And you dolook all in after your regular evening stunt. All right. Youmay have one week after the end of the séances in which tomake up such of your mind as I have not made up for you.But I say——”

“Yes, Your—— Yes, Pluto?”

“Aren’t you the dearest of griefs?” Although he laughedat the guile with which she had thanked him for his concession,he finished the warning sternly. “See you makeyour story snappy to-night. Don’t let these days of grace—ordisgrace—make you as profuse of unessential details asyou’ve been chary of the essentials past nights. If you do,you’ll find yourself talking against time with a vengeance.A vengeance—get that?”

Yes, she assured him, her voice a minor chord. And shewould try to make it “snappy.”

A weakness for her? As compared with the strength hewas showing to bend or break her to his will, that dreadnow seemed a hope.

CHAPTER XI

In the long moment during which Mrs. Cabot leveled herastonished stare upon the applicant as governess to her son,the girl did not breathe. When direct demand was made ofher she could not speak.

“Tell me, is coming here your own idea? Or did myhusband——?”

The smart vision in black and white interrupted herselfby an over-shoulder invitation.

“Come in, Henri. Be moved to admiration of my John.Even you will concede that he is improving.”

To the personage in blue-gray uniform who clattered ather side, she added:

“You have the privilege of viewing at close range thefamed Dolores Trent.”

“Ah, the mademoiselle which Meestaire Cabot haverescue?” inquired the French cavalry officer.

“The same. Is there anything like rescuing a lady, mydear d’Elie, to excite a man’s interest in her? He is pleasedwith her because pleased with himself—so pleased that hewants to keep right on rescuing her. I might have knownthat John would locate the disappearing heroine of his heroact sooner or later. But how naïvely American to try tomake a convenience of his own home!”

In Dolores’ silence Mrs. Morrison denied the charge.

“Miss Trent was sent here through Madame Sheehan’sagency, to which I frequently apply. Up to the moment youcame in just now, Mrs. Cabot, she thought me the motherof the child in need of a governess. I assure you that Mr.Cabot had nothing to do with her application.”

An arpeggio of light laughter, accompanied by a basschord, greeted this defense.

“No use talking, she’s good, isn’t she?” Mrs. Cabot askedher escort, before turning directly to Dolores. “But I fear,Miss Trent, that you’re not quite good enough. A motherowes something to her child, even though a father thinksthat he does not. I thank you for coming. You have succeededbetter than our parson friend’s lynx in giving me arare sensation—that of surprise. I wish you a very goodmorning.”

Dolores rose; heard a quiet voice making her reply.

“And I am sorry that I came. I shouldn’t have done sohad I understood. I hope you will believe Mrs. Morrison,if not me, for Mr. Cabot’s sake. Good morning.”

On her way to the entrance, the purport of a rapid exchangein French between him named as d’Elie and Mrs.Cabot was forced upon her realization.

“Pardon, adored one, but have you considered the otherneeds of your household?”

“What other needs could there be in which this celebratedmiss is concerned?”

“Only yesterday madame was saying that her husbandseemed afflicted with ennui—that it might be advisable tostimulate his interest in life. Might it not prove pleasant,my angel, if the father of the infant terrible should findthe new governess—shall I say, congenial?”

“Enough, my clever Henri. I understand.”

So complete was the change of manner with which Mrs.Cabot stopped the girl at the door that a more experiencedperson could scarcely have been blamed for bewilderment.Her cynical expression was lost in a humid smile. Her voicesoftened. She tossed aside the crop with which she hadbeen swishing the air to extend the hand of appeal.

“The Marquis d’Elie has criticized my lack of charity,”she said. “Perhaps I am wrong to jump at conclusions.And it is a responsibility to send a mere child like you backinto a world which already has been rather hard on her.Then, too, my unfortunate offspring is to be considered. Itis quite possible that he might get along better with a youngperson than the nursery monitors he so often has defeated.I wonder if you are as amiable as you look—if you couldforgive the hasty things I said just now?”

Dolores did not know what to think, still less what tosay. She parried by a question which interested her.

“You call your son unfortunate. What is the matterwith him?”

Catherine Cabot’s first talent was that of taking. Whatevershe wanted in life she took as her perquisite. Alwayshad she taken admiration, service, flattery, love, sacrifice,money. Literally she had taken her husband because hewas useful to her. She proceeded now to take DoloresTrent.

“Oh, my dear, if you could know how unfortunate! Mostchildren have some sort of a chance, but not my poor Jackie.Probably after you have seen him and know something ofthe disposition that comes from his sufferings, you won’twish to undertake him. You would need a love for childrengreat enough to include the most unlovable.”

“But I have a great love for children,” Dolores said. “Myneighbors used to say that I have a way with them.”

“Mr. Cabot would be relieved of his heaviest burden ifwe’d find some one who could handle Jack.” Catherine continuedher “taking.” “It would seem like a fatality, wouldn’tit, if in return for his small service to you that day atSeff’s——”

“His service wasn’t small, Mrs. Cabot. I may haveseemed ungrateful not to thank him, but I—— Yousee——”

“Of course you couldn’t and of course he didn’t wish youto,” the wife assured her. “But it would be really beautiful—sortof nice and Emersonian—if you could pass alongthe favor he did you to his child. Suppose you hold anopen mind, Miss Trent, until after you’ve met Jack. I’llcome to his rooms later and help to explain him. Morrisonwill take up all details with you, if you should decide tostay. Won’t you try, anyhow, to forget and forgive myunkindness?”

The girl, still standing just within the door, heard theFrenchman’s congratulation, as the brilliant-looking pair disappearedamong the palms of the foyer.

“But you are wonderful, my adored one, most wonderful!”

As Dolores stepped off the elevator onto the third-floorbalcony that overlooked the great, glass-domed hall, awoman’s scream cut the quiet. The housekeeper hurriedahead and threw open the door of a large, sun-flooded room.

“He have bite me, Mees Morrison. But see this mark onmy wrist. I should regret to desert madame, but I giveup my place rather than play as the nurse one hour longer.”

The plaint arose from a be-capped young woman whomDolores later learned to be Annette, Mrs. Cabot’s maid,pressed into emergency service. She had made a shield ofa light chair between herself and the boy of eight, or thereabouts,who was pursuing her. The bone of their contentionseemed to be a particularly boneless toy dog held above hisreach.

Dolores’ first view of John Cabot, Jr., was not heartening.His only recognition of her presence was a scowl. In lurchingforward over the chair to recapture his plaything, heslipped and fell, with a shriek more of chagrin than pain,upon the floor. When Morrison and Annette rushed to hisassistance, Dolores intervened. She asked that they leaveher alone with the boy.

After the closing click of the door she crossed to oneof the windows; seated herself in an upholstered chair; gaveher attention to the park view.

“Why don’t you come and pick me up?”

At the demand, she turned to see that Master Jack stillsprawled on the floor, his chin cupped in his hands, hisunchildlike frown upon her.

“I didn’t suppose you’d wish to be picked up—a big boylike you,” she said. “I didn’t suppose you’d even wish meto look at you.”

She regretted the ruse the moment she realized his physicalhandicap. Having challenged his pride, however, she hesitatedto retreat. But an ache for him which never was entirelyeased came into her heart as she watched his effortsto achieve his feet; noted the warped condition of his legs;watched his peculiar gait as he approached her—a slitheringforward of his feet, with no yield at his knees and hips.

Jack’s upper body was only fairly developed, yet by comparisonwith his nether limbs his arms looked excessivelylong. His head, with its luxurious growth of dark brown,slightly curling hair, was large as a gnome’s. At themoment his features were twisted into an expression ofresentment. Only his eyes were beautiful, wide-set andIrish-gray in color, with an outsweep of long, almost blacklashes.

A certain embarrassment for him, which quickly followedthe shock of noting his deformity, caused Dolores to lifther eyes toward a square object wrapped about with a bathtowel, which was suspended from the ceiling near thewindow.

“A bird?” she asked irrelevantly.

“A canary.” Master Jack now stood directly before her.“He sings so much around noon-time, I bag him.”

“And don’t you like him to sing?”

“Of course not. He sounds too happy. Who are you,anyway?”

Dolores’ eyes filled with the wistfulness that always overflowedher heart at thought of her own lonely childhood—hersuper-sad little-girlhood.

“I am some one your mother has engaged to keep youcompany,” she told him. “I do hope we can make a goof it, Jack. I certainly should appreciate your friendship.”

“You’re not——” Suspicion stiffened his face. “Say, ifyou’re another governess——”

“I’d rather be,” she interrupted, “sort of a pal.”

“But you couldn’t play boy’s games. What’s your name?”

“Dolores Trent. Dolores means grief.”

“’Lores—grief?”

His interest was caught, as had been Vincent Seff’s, bythat “sad little name” of hers. He hooked one hand to hiship like some shrunken old man and studied her from beneaththe graceful sweep of his lashes. New objectionoccurred to him.

“My mother insists that I keep cheerful all the time. Shemightn’t let you stay if she knew your name meant grief.She hung Dick in here. That’s one reason I don’t like him.”

“How you must love your mother, Jack—she’s sobeautiful!”

“That’s no reason to love anybody,” came his startlingstatement. “I’ve been living with my mother going on nineyears now and she’s getting kind of stale. I don’t mindyour name—being kept cheerful all the time is what I hatethe most. I won’t stand it, I tell you!”

Dolores quieted his returning excitement with a shrug ofcompliance. “Let’s just be miserable together, then.”

“Until that gets tiresome.” Even with the shrewd proviso,one corner of the boy’s over-large mouth twitched, as if fromhumor. “Mind, I get my own way,” he warned, “exceptwhen John’s home.”

“John?” she asked.

“My father. He’s the only person I respect, unless it isClarke Shayle. I don’t know, though. I think I like Clarkemore than I respect him. And then, of course, he hurtsme a lot. Clarke’s my osteopath. He has won five medalsfor swimming. John hasn’t any medals, but he doesn’t needthem. You sort of know that he could have all he wantedif he wanted them.”

“And you let your father have his own way with you?”

“Of course, and not because he would punish me if Idisobeyed him, either. They say”—Jack drew up quaintly—“thatJohn worships me. As for me, I shouldn’t wish tooffend him. We’re awfully chummy, my father and I,although he’s very tall and strong and I——” Gulping, heturned away. “See that wooden cradle in the corner? I’dnever have it in my rooms except that John was rocked in itwhen he was a baby. Seems funny to think of John everhaving been a baby, he’s so mannish now.”

The Colonial antique which had distracted the little fellow’sthoughts from himself, was the first of many interestingtreasures he showed her. Mrs. Cabot had called thechild’s quarters “rooms,” rather than “nursery,” and theywere, indeed, furnished incongruously for his years. Exceptfor a few mechanical toys, the suite might have been that ofsome sophisticated bachelor. The chamber that opened offthe living room was filled with heirloom mahogany, the beda fine example of pineapple four-poster upon which notonly his father’s father, but also his great-grandfather hadslept. Oil portraits of the paternal line hung the walls.Turkish rugs lay upon the polished floors. An old cornerclock ticked away the time for this last of the Cabots as ithad for seven generations of the name before him. He particularlyliked the clock, Jack said, because it was calm-faced—nottoo sad, not too happy—just calm.

To a large bowl of gold-fish twinkling lazily in the sunlight,he invited her especial attention. They had been givenhim by Clarke Shayle, he explained, to demonstrate the firstprinciples of swimming.

“Clarke’s going to make a swimmer of me,” he asserted,“after he gets me well. Oh, you needn’t look so sorry forme! I’ve got good arms, haven’t I? You watch the gold-fish.They haven’t any legs.”

“Promise”—Dolores swallowed at the lump in her throat—“togive me one of your medals as a souvenir some day?”

From a downward glance at his poor body, he stared ather suspiciously. Evidently deciding that she was not makingsport of him, he conceded: “Of course it may be a whileyet. And we mayn’t be friends that long. That’s Clarkecoming now for my treatment. I know his step.”

“Dr.” Shayle lacked the professional look. Althoughslightly above medium height, he was heavy as he well couldbe without loss of the athletic appearance for which Doloreshad been prepared. He was young, clean-shaved, redheaded,freckled. Next after his appearance of strength,she noticed his cheerfulness. He had very clean teeth andan engaging smile. Early in their interview, he laughed in ajoyous, lingering way, with a glance that coaxed her to sharehis amusem*nt. She noticed also in these first moments ayellowish fleck in the brown iris of his right eye. It servedto give him an oddly intent expression.

At once after Jack’s staid ceremony of introduction, hedeclared excitedly that he would not be “mauled” to-day—thathe could not be forced into a treatment.

“Who wants to force you?” asked Shayle. “Do you thinkI enjoy wearing myself all out? A hike will be better foryou, anyhow, at the present moment. Here, let me wind upthat dog!”

His suggestion developed into a lesson in the slitheringwalk which evidently was the afflicted lad’s chief hope ofgetting along through life. The toy, over whose possessionJack had bitten the French maid’s wrist, was a mechanicaldog whose four legs worked, when set going, with somethingthe movement which the osteopath was cultivating in hispatient. The dog set the pace across the room; the boy didhis best to follow.

“If you’d hold your head straight, little chump, not sofar to one side, you’d be better balanced,” Shayle advisedfrom his down-leaning, critical inspection.

“I won’t and I never will.” Jack stopped to glare backat his trainer. “John always holds his head to one side andI guess he walks all right.”

“Oh well, if John does! Like father like son—beautifulsentiment.” At once the doctor passed the point. Givingup seemed to be his policy. “That’s enough hiking forto-day, old scout. Just let me feel those knee muscles. No,not a regular boy-handling on the bed. Just a touch to seeif they aren’t working better to-day.”

During the operation into which Shayle had inveigled hispatient, Dolores observed that his hands, while freckled andrather thick, were drawn into slender fingers, pointed at thetips, with nails neatly manicured.

“You’ve cheated—you’re hurting me like a real treatment!”shrieked Jack and beat his practitioner in the faceuntil able to wriggle out of his grasp.

Dr. Shayle changed the subject as promptly as he gave uphis attempt. “Have a heart, Mister Dempsey. Wait aminute—I want to say something. What’s become ofthe Cabot courtesy? You haven’t asked Miss Trent to takeoff her things.”

“We were so busy getting acquainted!” Dolores, with aconfidential glance at the boy, lifted her hands to her hat.

“Allow me to make up for friend pugilist’s oversight.”With that coaxing laugh of his, Shayle arose to help with theDuvetyn coat.

In the act, his hand touched the pulse at the side of herthroat. With the contact, a strange sensation quiveredthrough her, disturbing, yet somehow pleasant. Evidentlyhe, too, had felt it. He looked straight into her eyes amoment, his face suddenly serious.

“Ah!”

Oddly enough, that was all he said.

“Madame has a headache, Dr. Shayle. She wishes you toattend her as soon as you have finish’ with the—with MasterJacques.”

The interruption came from Annette, the maid who hadbeen bitten, now serene of voice and immaculate in freshcap and apron.

“What, another?”

Dolores heard the mutter which prefaced Shayle’s moreformal acknowledgment of the message. She was surprisedat the headache and told the doctor so. Mrs. Cabot hadlooked quite well on returning from her ride.

Although he made no comment, she was struck by hisexpression and the fact that it was reflected in the thin faceof the boy—an expression hard to define, but certainly notsympathetic.

After a luncheon served for Jack and herself in his sitting-room,the boy was retired to his nap and she summoned toan interview with Mrs. Morrison. She was not askedwhether she would or would not stay. The housekeeperseemed to have taken it for granted that she would. Andindeed, two realizations had settled the issue. Jack neededher and she needed him.

She was shown a pleasant room farther along the third-floorbalcony and asked about her luggage. Her wageswould be the same as paid the previous governess. Mrs.Cabot regretted a slight indisposition, but sent word that,as Dr. Shayle approved her start with Master Jack, she wasto use her own judgment.

The kindly housekeeper expressed a personal hope thatshe would be happy and comfortable. She must come downto the ground-floor parlor when lonely and must not failto ask for anything she needed or wished.

Before the young heir had awakened, Dolores returned tothe outer room of the suite. She took up a magazine, butdid not feel like reading—got no farther than a page ofkennel advertisem*nts. Her eyes upon a circle which hadbeen penciled around the picture of a pedigreed Airedale, shegave up to her thoughts.

Strange though it was, her present situation seemednatural. That she should find herself in the home of theCabots who, from among the great cityfull had figured inboth her previous engagements, impressed her as nothingshort of fatalistic. Blindfolded, she had faced in theirdirection. Each of her stumbles had been a step towardthe place made ready for her. She had been prepared toappreciate what they had to offer her; they what she couldand would return. The third attempt to earn her livelihoodsurely would prove the charm. Could it be possible thatonly that morning she had set out, the end of her day aclosed book? This afternoon the book lay wide, its linesclearly typed. And pleasant reading the future chapterslooked, each day-page illumined with the joy of doing forsomeone less fortunate than herself.

Until he spoke, she did not know that Jack was staringat her from the bedroom doorway.

“You have a nicer nose than the last one. She left becauseI called her ‘Needle-nose Nannie’ to her face. Shehad the piercingest nose I ever saw. I never asked myother governesses, but will you come with me on my drive?”

Dolores was glad to go, the more so that he had suggestedit. Already she longed that he should love her.There seemed safety in the love of a child.

In the open car from which he preferred to take his airwhen the weather was fine, as he told her with his mannerof a bored little man of affairs, she scarcely could restrainthe impulse to put her arm around him. Appreciating, however,his oldishness, she contented herself with finding hishand beneath the fur robe when a squirrel excited them bydashing across the road in peril of their tires.

They did not drive for long. Sight of several childrenrunning races on the green brought from the cripple a crisporder of “Home, Herrick!”

Dolores made no protest. She understood. But she heldtight to the gloved fingers beneath the robe.

“I never take any chances of missing John,” was the boy’smanufactured explanation. “He comes up to see me firstthing after he gets home.”

Back in his suite, the tedium of his shut-in life soonshowed in returning irritability.

“I do get so tired of women, women—always women! Idon’t like them any more than they like me. Why can’t theyget me a man governess?” And after a scowling moment:“What games do you know?”

Dolores did not know any. “Games” had been consideredthe least necessary thing in her child life. Yet the momentwas unpropitious for admitting the lack. Urgently sheapplied to her imagination. A smothered cheep from thetowel-covered bird-cage brought inspiration.

“Did you ever try,” she asked, “a game called ‘Turn-about’?”

“No. How do you play it?”

“Another name for it is ‘Fair-Play.’ Turn-about is fair-play,you know. First one of us—you or I—has his way.Then, turn-about, the other has his.”

“Sounds like a queer game.” He considered a moment,as the possibilities of the idea opened before him. “Youcan do anything you like in your turn—all the naughty thingsyou’ve wanted to do and didn’t dare?”

“All of them—that is, all you still wish to do.”

“All right. First go!” A crafty look lit the gray eyes.Turning, he shuffled across the room. “I’m going to dowhat your coming stopped me from doing—break this dog.I hate—hate—HATE it! It is just a stupid toy, but it goesfaster than I can every time and it never hurts at all.”

Without a word of protest, Dolores watched him hammerthe floor with the device which was at once his ambition andhis despair; allowed him to wrench it to pieces, legs frombody and head from neck.

“My turn now,” she said. “I’m going to take the towelfrom around Dick’s cage.”

Sagacity was evidenced in the boy’s instant retort. “ThenI’ll take my next turn putting it back again.”

“And keep the game at a standstill? I can repeat, remember,as often as you,” Dolores warned him. Steppingdown from the chair upon which she had stood to let sunlightin upon the canary, now ruffling its yellow plumage enjoyably,she seated herself and stayed his lifted hand. “I wantto tell you something, Jackie dear. Happiness is the mostattractive thing in the world and one of the hardest to have.Just because your bird knows the secret of how to haveit, even though shut up in a smaller space than you, you arejealous. So long as you’re jealous, you’ll never be happy.I’ve never been very happy either, but I want to be and I’veheard that happiness begets happiness. Maybe if you andI would listen to Dick sing, we’d get the spirit of why hesings. Maybe after a while we could be happy, too. Whatdo you say?”

“I say it’s no fun being happy.”

Although he jerked his hand away and spoke defiantly,Dolores thought she saw a gleam of interest in his eyes.

“Of course, you can try if you want to,” he added. “I’lltake my next turn spilling the gold-fish. There’ll be plentyof time for Clarke to get me some more before I’m strongenough to learn to swim.”

Heartsick, Dolores watched him stagger toward the bathroomwith the heavy glass bowl. She realized that, in steadyinghimself inside, he was waiting for her to object. Butshe uttered no word of reproach as he dumped the gleaminginmates and their small sea upon the tiling. When she heardhim chuckling over their squirms, she followed him.

“My turn!” She took the bowl from him, filled it withfresh water and replaced within it the emptied moss andstones. Upon her knees on the folded bath-rug, she invitedhis assistance in a way most matter-of-fact “We must getthem in quickly or they’ll die. Careful how you scoop themup—their fins are very delicate. See how glad they are tobe back in the water again and how gracefully they swim!”

The boy was actually helping her when the opening ofthe hall door interrupted. He steadied himself to his feet,then slithered into the sitting-room. Still bent to her life-savingtask, Dolores heard the exchange without and saw,over-shoulder, the man-to-man hand-shake of father andson.

“Hello, John Cabot!”

“Jack Cabot, hello!”

“I broke my dog, but you know the reason, John. I’dnot mind so much if a live one beat me. Aren’t you evergoing to get me a real dog?”

“Your apology is accepted, Jack. But how could I knowyou’d be good to a live dog if you had one? He wouldhave to be considered as well as you. They tell me you breakall your toys. I’d hate to see the spirit of a good dog broken.How can I be sure——”

“But I tell you I would be good to him. Don’t I keepmy word to you, John? I’d never have spilled the fishesexcept that I had given in to ’Lores about Dick. Oh, youdon’t know about ’Lores yet!”

The boy it was who brought them again face to face.Dolores had reëntered the living-room. John Cabot stoppedbeside the center table—stopped and looked across at her.Just what his look meant—superstition, disapproval, fear—shecould not be sure. Her heart beat uncomfortably whileshe waited for him to speak.

“I was told down-stairs that a new governess had come,”he said, after what seemed a long time. “I didn’t understandthat it was you.”

“And I didn’t understand that the position was offered byyou,” she replied. “If you are displeased, Mr. Cabot, Iwill give up—Jack.”

“But I won’t give her up, John, even if she is a woman-governess.She knows games that I never heard about. Ifyou’ll just get me an Airedale now——”

The child’s demands broke the strain of the moment.John Cabot offered his hand. The faint smile of his reassurancedisappeared from his lips when he read on thetiling the continuation of Jack’s story of the gold-fish.Dolores studied him. Although a shadow lowered over hiseyes at this evidence of the evil temper of his son, he gaveher an impression of great kindness and great suppression.He looked like what he really was—which, she had noticed,most men do not.

“I am afraid, my boy, that I could not trust a live dogto you,” he said.

He was restoring the last of the stranded aquatics to comfortwithin the bowl when a lilting laugh surprised the three.Mrs. Cabot, evidently recovered from her headache, waswatching them.

CHAPTER XII

John Cabot seldom spoke with the new governess, as shetook to absenting herself during the afternoon hour whichhe spent with his son. None the less she learned much abouthim and, through the opinion of others, came to hold him inhigh regard.

Mrs. Morrison, daughter of the distinguished-looking oldbutler, Bradish, had been with the Cabot family practicallyher lifetime and proved an enthusiastic informant at thetea-time chats to which she frequently invited the girl. Shetook a personal pride in her employer and his career.

Mr. Cabot, she boasted, was one of the few “real” NewYorkers. His family had lived in Manhattan since the sixteen-fifties.A red brick house in Whitehall Street, nearthe Battery, had been the birthplace of two generations ofhis grandfathers. There the Cabots had lived in the dayswhen Castle Garden was the home of Grand Opera andJennie Lind its Galli-Curci. The old house still stood,although its quondam drawing-room, where once the fairand gallant had stepped the minuet, now staged nothingmore romantic than haggles over the price of shipping stores.

The comfortable fortune awaiting the present head ofthe house on his graduation from Princeton, he had increasedto great wealth through an international bankingorganization built up largely through his efforts. Particularlyproud was the housekeeper over the fact that not onlythe Cabot dollars but the master himself had workedunceasingly to “win the war,” that not only his own Government,but also those of Britain and France had heapedhonors upon him. In the underwriting of the war loans ofthe Allies and in the direction of American Liberty Bondflotations the services he had rendered without financial gainwere declared inestimable. For a time, indeed, the CabotBank—a classic structure on Broad Street within a stone’sthrow of the homestead—had been the acknowledged centerof war finance for half the world.

By his employees—also according to Morrison—thebanker was adored for his democratic manner; was respectedfor the unfailing honesty of his business code; was, at thesame time, served with the diligence of fear. In his home,his every gesture was anticipated that it might be the morequickly obeyed. None, not even the beautiful madame,would have dared question any of the direct wishes he soseldom expressed.

To his only son John Cabot was a fascinating mystery.

“You know, John’s a queer man,” the boy confided toDolores, with his elderly faculty for analysis. “He’s asquiet and kind as anybody could be and yet he keeps everyonescared of him. Morrison says it’s because he is ‘just.’ Whatis there about justice, ’Lores, that everybody’s so scared of?”

On another occasion: “One thing I like about John, isthe interest he can take in little things. Why, he plays myChristmas games better than I do, and the way he can keepclocks going! Sometimes when he stays home evenings, hebrings almost a dozen in here and sits on the floor and getsthem all ticking at once. That clock of my great-grandfatherCabot’s is his pet. All the jewelers said the old works wouldhave to be replaced. But John says he’s going to keep itgoing through my lifetime at least. He’s funny that way.He never thinks of dying. Somehow, I don’t think anybodycould make him die until he got ready.”

Once the child-man had opened up a hurt in his confidence:“I heard my mother tell John one day that mygrandmother—his own mother, you know—might have calledhim ‘Jack,’ but she felt sure that nobody else had. She saidhe was the uncompromising kind of man that everybody justnaturally called ‘John.’ Sometimes my mother talks as ifshe did not think much of John, any more than she does ofme. That’s why I can’t think much of her. Just what kindis an uncompromising man, ’Lores?”

Even by madame herself were the peculiarities of the masterof the great house discussed with the latest comer.Dolores, yielding to the unexpected fancy which Catherineseemed to have taken to her and looking on her with almostworshipful eyes in her sacred capacity of motherhood, welcomedevery opportunity of showing her gratitude. Onestormy afternoon, when she had been summoned to m’lady’squarters on the second floor, the trend of the wife’s conversationbecame an urge that the governess think well of herhusband.

Fragrant from her bath, Catherine was sitting before apier glass in her dressing room leisurely and, it would seemregretfully, covering her exquisite body with undergarmentsof rather sleazy texture. The fresh-opened box of bon-bonswhich stood on a nearby tabourette she urged upon Doloreswith her comments.

“John Cabot’s character is an open book—in cipher,” shedeclared. “I have noticed, my dear, that you appear to bejust a bit in awe of him. It seems too bad when you willbe thrown so much together over Jack. Perhaps if I giveyou the key to him you will feel more comfortable in hispresence. He is not nearly so cold or stern as he acts.Really, he used to be quite ardent before—— Well, youknow, before we got to know each other so thoroughly. Iused to think him the strongest man I’d ever met.”

Dolores resented the insinuation. “But isn’t he stillstronger, now that he has learned to control his feelings?And perhaps he wouldn’t wish people to be given what youcall the key to him.”

But Catherine was not listening, as told by the opera airshe hummed. She had become intent over an open drawerfulof lingerie, some pieces simple, some elaborate as thesweat-shop set bought that day at Seff’s. With the selectionof a rather plain Philippine linen for that day’s wear, herinterest returned to the ever engrossing subject of herself.

“Queer, isn’t it, how one’s early habits will cling? Haveyou heard that I wasn’t always rich? I haven’t a dollarexcept what Mr. Cabot has settled on me. My father hadplenty to start with, but he squandered it all on ‘old masters’that turned out to be neither masters nor old. I try toforget the humiliations of those days, but every now andthen am reminded by little things—like, for instance, this.”

At the puzzled look with which Dolores’ eyes met theemergence of her own from the neck scallops of the sheerenvelope, she expanded:

“I never wear my best clothes on a stormy day. Isn’t thattoo funny, when I don’t need to think of the weather? I’minterested in noting my own characteristics quite as much asI would be those of another person. Dr. Shayle says thatI have the introspective faculty to a marked degree. Iappreciate the compliment from him.”

“He seems to see,” the girl remarked, “so much more thanis on the surface.”

By way of the glass, Catherine smiled at her, the shortupper lip which was a piquant flaw in otherwise perfectfeatures lifting over her gleaming, mouselike teeth.

“Oh, Dr. Shayle has remarkable powers! I discoveredhim, you know. No wonder he admires me and feels—well——”

For once Dolores interrupted. She did not wish to be toldfirst-hand of the likable young osteopath’s devotion, concerningwhich she had heard considerable gossip from theservants. She felt that it would not be just loyal to Dr.Shayle. Although fearful for her temerity, she changed thesubject.

“That day you engaged me, the Marquis d’Elie spoke ofother needs of your household in which I might help. Youhave been very kind to me and I want to do all I can inreturn. Won’t you tell me what they are—the other needs?”

Relieved that her beautiful employer showed no resentment,she did not try to analyze the confused look turnedinto the mirror.

“The need the marquis meant——” Catherine spokereadily enough after the moment’s pause—“is mine forsomeone congenial to talk with in this great barn of a house—someonerefined, you know, with a mind more the qualityof my own. That’s all, really, just someone to lift the heavymoments. D’Elie feels a deep sympathy for me.”

So pathetic did she sound and look that Dolores, too, feltsympathetic. That the enviable Mrs. Cabot might have asecret sorrow had not occurred to her. This time she didnot check the tendency toward confidence; waited ratherin silence, lest she seem inquisitive, for whatsoever might beentrusted to her. But before Catherine could continue, someoneentered the boudoir that opened off the dressing room.It was the Marquis d’Elie.

That was the early afternoon when he, like the oft-mentioned“angel” of the old saw, startled them both by anunannounced appearance. Dolores was sitting out of hisline of vision, but she could see him plainly in the pierglass. She rose, outraged at the Frenchman’s presumptionwith the wife of John Cabot; turned toward Catherine;waited for her to reprimand him as he deserved.

Catherine, who had been in the act of tying a ribbon ather breast, stiffened as if turned to the marble she lookedand stared into the glass at the reflection of the smilingalien. A hurried glance she spared for the confections of silkcrepe and lace in the open drawer, then bit her lip. Whenat last she spoke, her voice was one of utter exasperation.

“And me in a cotton chemise!”

“But lovely—ah—as a lily of la belle France!” theMarquis enthused. “I have slip’ up for that small talk ofconfidence about the amount of the dot, mon ange. I feeldistress that you must sue for so much. But the responsibilityis on me to assure that my queen have those comfortto which——”

“You certainly slipped up!” Sharply Catherine cut intothe expression of his “responsibility.” Hers seemed to befor Dolores and the dressing robe which she had worn fromher bath. This she donned before going into the boudoir.“You shouldn’t have come unannounced, Henri. Never dosuch a thing again. How fortunate it is that Miss Trenthappened to be with me. You remember meeting Jack’s newgoverness?”

His assurance was remarkable. Low he bowed beforeDolores when, in response to Catherine’s appeal, she followed.

“And how is mademoiselle enabled to do with the fiend-enfant?”he enquired affably.

Dolores strove to control her contempt for him. Shereplied that she found Jack no fiend, but a most lovablechild. He must be awakening from his nap about now.Would Mrs. Cabot excuse her?

“First, my dear, won’t you ring for Annette?” Catherinemade proviso.

“And how,” the marquis persisted in the wait, “is the so-famedsiren enabled to do with Meester Cabot?”

Grateful for the support of madame’s frown, Doloresanswered, steadily as she might: “So far Mr. Cabot hasmade no complaint of my methods with his son.”

“She has done wonderfully—with Jack.” Catherinesmiled at Dolores her innocent smile. “I, for one, am mostgrateful to Miss Trent, even if John hasn’t shown his appreciation.”

“Perhaps he has not—as yet—have the opportunity.” Theforeigner, too, contributed an encouraging beam.

“Just what I’ve been telling her!” Catherine approved.“Miss Trent is so very self-effacing that I fear Johnthinks——”

Just which of the wife’s fancies was about to be attributedto the great brain of John Cabot, Dolores never knew. Shefelt a sudden and vehement disinclination to hear his possiblethoughts discussed before such an audience. She crossedto the gallery door.

“I hear Annette coming. I—I’d like to go, Mrs. Cabot.Jack may be looking for me.”

She did not wait for the elevator, but hurried up the widemarble steps that led from gallery to gallery to the top ofthe house. Fast as she took them, however, distressingquestions pursued her.

What was she to think—how conduct herself?

Looking into Jack’s living-room, she saw that the doorinto his bedroom still was closed. The calm-faced clockannounced that it was not really time for him to haveawakened. As she went toward her own chamber to wait,she heard the click of the elevator letting someone off at thethird gallery, but did not glance up to see who it was. Shewished to be alone—to think.

Once her own door was closed, however, she shrank fromthinking. Rather than force herself to any immediate conclusionregarding the surprising developments of the lastseveral minutes, she allowed her mind to rest, as it were,upon the thought of young Jack.

During the days which had accumulated into weeks sinceher entry into the Cabot home, her influence upon the boyhad continued to be poured into the mold of their first hour.The household agreed that none of the many who had undertakenhim had approached her success. Rather than theproblem which he was said to have been to earlier governesses,he had become a revelation to her.

Although they continued to play “Turn-About” at times,she had ceased to rely upon games for the establishment ofunderstanding between them. So long as Jack did what heknew to be right and fair, he and she might share enjoyment,even happiness. When he ceased, her disappointment in himspoiled their day. They consulted upon every item of theirdaily program subject to change. From play to text-bookshad been a gradual but sure transition. What at first hadcaused ruction, became a medium of pleasant companionship.Lessons learned under a “pal” instead of a task-mistressdidn’t seem like lessons at all.

Dolores’ service was but what she would have given unrequitedto the stunted human plant. Love had bloomed asher reward. The lad’s devotion to her had become a by-wordin the house.

Only last evening, when she had slipped into his roomto tell him good-night after the maid had left, he had overcomehis prejudice against any show of affection sufficientlyto lift his over-long arms about her neck.

“’Lores,” he had whispered half-ashamedly, “I have madeup a nice name for you. I don’t wish to tell even you whatit is. I’m afraid you’d make fun of it. It is just a littlename for you that I save to think about when I’m trying togo to sleep.”

With the poignant memory, the girl felt comforted. Life,which hitherto had seemed indifferent when not actuallycruel toward her, had grown kind. Surely no malice of JadeFate could be behind the gift of a child’s adoration.

And in what luxury did she live—she, whose sole capitalso recently had been a ripening nectarine! No opportunitywas given her to think of her needs. They were fore-attended.Beside her own beautiful room, the young heir’skingdom was shared with her. And more than her needswere remembered. Mrs. Cabot’s gratitude and affection tookthe practical form of tickets to theater and opera matinees,of the free use of Jack’s car, and twice of invitations downstairsto dine en famille. In a partial expenditure of hersalary, she had acquired, by way of being more worthy hersurroundings, some unpretentious, but pretty clothes. Theblack worn for Trevor Trent she had laid away for the gayercolors liked by Jack, just as she was trying to lay awaysorrow for good cheer.

To-day, where was that good cheer?

Here she had shut herself in her room in a panic of foreboding.Was she so used to trouble that she would attractby expecting it? Despite the general kindness toward her,she felt afraid.

There was Dr. Clarke Shayle. At first his show of interestin her had been confined to the period of Jack’s dailytreatment, when he would chat with the two of them in theset phrases to which he was given, leaving an impression ofimpartial friendliness. But a few days before he hadreturned during the boy’s nap hour to add a detail to hisinstructions. Even Jack had pierced the pretense and takenoccasion, through some instinct or reason over which hegrew quite sullen, to acquaint his mother with the fact.

The annoyance shown by Mrs. Cabot brought memoryback to the more recent annoyance of this early afternoon.What had given the Marquis d’Elie the right of way tomadame’s boudoir? She decided to force the question fromher mind as beyond her scope. General hints about theimpecunious foreigner had been emphasized by Annetteafter the style of the French paper-backs which formed herideas of high-life lived low. Vicariously the maid hadthrilled over d’Elie’s infatuation for her beautiful mistress;deplored the fact that m’lady, being, alas, already wedded,might not acquire the right to the proud title of Marquiseof France; grieved over the misfortune that her heroine,having no personal fortune, might not with financial safetyfree herself. Oh, not that madame had any more real feelingfor her suitor than for her own husband! Her heart’slove, as Annette had reason to know, was given to another.That complication, however, was according to form, aswritten in French originals.

All this was peace-poison, Dolores decided, and for suchthere was no antidote. One thing only must she remember.“M’lady” was John Cabot’s wife. The fact stared from herdressing-table mirror each time, as now, she smoothed herhair and compared its blackness with Catherine’s glory offine silk and pale gold. Of it she was reminded each timeher heart expanded over lonely Jack or her eyes caught thegleam of the limp diamond-and-platinum circlet which washis mother’s latest acquired and much admired “wedding”ring.

She herself had been judged unjustly by appearances. Shemust not—she would not judge. Married women, she hadbeen told, outgrew the prudishness which mothers taughttheir daughters. And titled foreigners were said to be morecareless of conventions than the great, clean men of America.Every melioration she must consider. Perhaps even themuch-discussed pair’s recent suggestions to her, at whichshe had felt such offense, had been conceived as they wereworded, in kindness. Catherine was the wife of the kingof the Cabots and the mother of Prince Jack. The queen-mothercould do no wrong.

Her decision reached, Dolores realized an unwontedphysical fatigue. She lay down on the bed for a momentthat she might take a fresh face and mind to Jack. A glanceat the ivory clock on her bedside table told her that it wasfifteen minutes to three. She closed her eyes with the intentionof allowing herself the quarter hour. For severalminutes she continued in full consciousness of the trustfulthoughts upon which she had decided as a policy. Thensoon, although daytime napping was not her habit, she fellinto a doze.

Her eyes flashed open before she was fairly awake, as ifat a call. For a moment she gave up to an exquisite sensationwhich had come to her. She felt relaxed, flushed, verymuch at peace. In a sort of dream, someone with strongarms who cared for her had rocked her as she often hadlonged to rock Jack. Repeatedly a tender, infusing voicehad said to her: “Rest, little girl.... Everything’s allright.... Rest.... Rest.”

And she had rested. How long? A glance at the clockbrought her to her feet. It was fifteen minutes after three!

Near the head of the stairway, beneath a boxed catalpatree, stood a decorative carved stone seat. Upon it sat Dr.Clarke Shayle. As, with a nod, Dolores was about to hurrypast him and into Jack’s room, he caught her hand and drewher to a seat beside him.

“You can spare a moment for the human headachepowder,” he said. “Tell me, how did you like it?”

“It?” She stared at him.

“The powder. But never mind. You don’t need toanswer. You certainly look some better at the present momentthan when you ran away from me into your room.”

“You can’t mean that—that you——”

The yellowish fleck in his eye twinkled, although his facewas unusually serious as he glanced down at the watchwhich, oddly enough, lay face up in his palm.

“At eight minutes of three I volunteered a first-aid treatment.I coddled you mentally the way I’d like to do really.You are an easy subject, you poor, scared little chump. Butit’s a hard life waiting on a stone bench. At fifteen afterthree I was selfish enough to give you the wake-up ring.Come, how did you like it?”

“I—I do feel refreshed. What is it about you—what isit?”

“I’ve wanted to explain that and a lot of things to youfor days, but you’ll never give me an opportunity. I wantto explain myself to you before someone does it for me—totell you to look out for me. I am what you might considera ‘dangerous’ man. Oh, it’s not inherited—it’s a gift.”

This rueful repetition of one of the several set phraseswith which he punctuated his most serious utterances wasaccompanied by the quick, cheerful laugh which was hisgreatest charm. Then the laugh’s smile stiffened into anexpression of utter misery.

So shocked was Dolores that she forgot her hurry to go.

He turned from the sight of her sympathy; forced himselfto continue. “I am not an honest osteopath, Miss Trent.My success is founded on the fact that I am magnetic.You felt that the first day you met me. You remember?See how strangely I can make you feel with a touch.”

“Yes, I remember. Oh, don’t—please don’t do thatagain!”

Even in freeing her wrist from the slim pulsant fingerswhich had clasped it, she realized that her sensations justifiedhis boast. Fearing his touch, she liked it.

“Never mind, I won’t. I don’t want to attract you thatway. You can trust me. I won’t touch you again—that is,not until you wish me to. Try to get what I’m telling you.It may kill me with you, but there’s no other way than tomake a clean breast of it. I’ve built up my practice on nothingmore or less than animal magnetism. Excites throughthe touch system. Gives sensations instead of curing them.Lord help me, she doesn’t see when I tell her how low I am!”

He paused as if in hope of help from her. But Dolorescould not speak. She was trying to believe that she hadmisunderstood.

“Lately I find that I’m getting psychic control,” he continued.“A nice little lot of harm I could do in the worldif I wanted to.” His voice was husky. In the momentbefore he dropped his face into his hands his clean smileshowed again. “But I don’t want to. I hate this life. Ihate my success. I hate being called in the profession ‘TheLadies’ Pet.’ Did you know I was called ‘The Ladies’Pet’?”

“I know,” said Dolores, “that Mrs. Cabot thinks you area remarkable man.”

“She should. She made me what I am to-day and to-morrow—handedme over to her social set. She’s satisfied,if I’m not. She knows and I know that she can unmakeme just as easily.”

“Why should she unmake you? She seems to take apride in you and in your admiration for her.”

“My what?”

“Only this afternoon, Dr. Shayle, she was telling me whatyou had said about her powers of introspection and concentration.”

“Her powers of—— You little chump!” He glancedtoward the stairway; controlled his incipient laugh; addedguardedly: “She hasn’t enough concentration to write apostal card.”

“Then why do you flatter her so?”

“Ladies’ pets are trained to meet the demands for flatteryof their petters. Catherine has a certain surface shrewdness,yes. But you can’t ‘reach’ her. Don’t worry about her.Worry about me, Dolores. Tut, don’t scold me! Youwouldn’t if you knew how long I’ve wanted to call youDolores to your face. I am doing what is awfully hard forme, not to have you point out my weaknesses, but in the hopethat you’ll encourage me to——”

With a smothered imprecation, he stopped. From hisslumped position he had seen before Dolores that Mrs. Cabotwas ascending the stairs. At the top of the climb shestopped and saw them. She was dressed in a negligee ofyellow satin and lace and looked exceedingly angry.

“I thought I heard voices and wondered if this could bepossible.” Her upper lip whitened over the mouse teeth asshe directly addressed Dr. Shayle. “Don’t you know that Iam waiting for my treatment?”

The color of the young man’s hair blended into his foreheadand cheeks. He got to his feet.

“Miss Trent and I have had quite a talk.” Although obviouslynervous, he forced his coaxing smile. “We’ve discussedmost of the important questions of the day. Notthat we’ve got anything settled at the present moment. Butwe’ve exercised our minds and so have made progress, evenif the world——”

“If you only wouldn’t say ‘at the present moment’!” Catherinesnapped.

With not a second glance at the governess, but a peremptorygesture to her physician, she turned back to thestairs.

Shayle, his athletic shoulders squaring, followed her.

“You needn’t take it out on me because I’m not a clevertalker,” Dolores heard him say to Catherine as, his handat her elbow, he assisted her in the descent “My stupidityain’t inherited. It’s a gift.”

At a sound Dolores turned to see Jack looking on fromhis door. His eyes were wide and grave—in expressionmuch like his father’s. His head slanted exactly as theelder John held his. With his laboriously acquired, makeshiftwalk, he crossed the balcony to a stop before her.

“Something said to me——” he began; paused to think;continued: “I guess I mean that myself said to myself I’dbest come out and ’tend to you. Maybe I’m foolish to worryabout you,’Lores, and yet——”

“And yet,” she supplied, serious as he, “maybe you’re not.Look after me, Jack. I need you to, for you are my safestfriend.”

She took comfort in his elderly assurances; tried to throwoff the prescience that weighed on her at thought of Catherine’soutraged look. But she was afraid.

Look high, look low, she was afraid.

CHAPTER XIII

As proved by developments of the next day, Dolores neednot have feared that Mrs. Cabot would blame her for theinterest of the uniquely attractive young osteopath. Evidentlyshe was of too sweet a nature for that. During theafter-luncheon respite, when the girl sat reading in her roomto avoid a possible repetition of yesterday’s telepathictête-à-tête, madame sought her in an exceptionally graciousmood. She was followed by her maid, who bore a longblack-and-white striped box.

“Lay it on the bed, Annette.”

Having dismissed the reluctant Frenchwoman, she turnedto Dolores with a manner of affectionate anticipation.

“I saw it yesterday at Yungman’s revue,” she announced.“As it stayed on my imagination over night, I sent Annettethis morning to buy it.”

“It?” Dolores tried to feel on faith something of Mrs.Cabot’s pleasurable excitement.

“It’s from Angèle, the colors copied from an overcast sunset,mostly gray, with just a suggestion through the mists oflavender and rose. And it’s built of the clingingest stuff.I hope you’ll like it.”

“I am sure I shall. All your things are beautiful.”

Dolores hovered over the tissue wrappings with the truegirl’s interest.

“Oh!” she exclaimed in a voice soft as the fabric.

“Oh!”—again, as Catherine lifted an evening gown on itssatin-padded hanger and suspended it from the electrolier.The most stupid cynic could not have doubted the governess’worshipful gaze, and madame, while in many respectsa cynic, was far from stupid.

“The lines of the manikin who wore it,” Catherine added,“didn’t compare with yours.”

And what had her “lines” to do with such a gown?Dolores looked the question.

“You are built for décolleté, my dear. The Marquisd’Elie remarked it only yesterday, after you’d sailed sogracefully from my rooms. Oh, you needn’t scorn a complimentfrom him! He’s a bit shy on discretion accordingto American standards, but he has studied women as a fineart. What he said about your possibilities made me rememberthis model. Of course I shouldn’t have considered itfor myself.”

“The dress, Mrs. Cabot, is for——”

“For you, silly. You can see at a glance that my coloringkills it.” Catherine reassured herself of the fact in themirror. “With your duo-tones—ebony hair and alabasterhide—— The dress is a little token of appreciation fromPapa-John and Mamma-me over your success with our son.It is just a fine Angèle feather for our household angel.”

“Dear Mrs. Cabot!”

Dolores’ exclamation was the more emotional for thedoubts which she had felt over her benefactress’ sinceritytoward herself. Lest she reveal by word or look the self-recriminationsthat filled her mind, she returned to the gift;touched its lax, silken folds; pressed to one cheek a wispof its subtly tinted tulle.

“My first evening dress,” she murmured with a fervorwhich showed that admiration was fast deepening into possessivelove. “Even though I haven’t any present need ofit——”

“But you have. You’ll need it to-night.” Catherine spokepositively. “Mr. Cabot has telephoned Bradish that an oldfriend of the family is to dine with us and I want you tomake a fourth at table. Rufus Holt is a university pal ofJohn’s and said to be the ablest divorce lawyer in NewYork. He never loses a case, perhaps because he can’t bebribed to take the side of the person in the wrong. What’smore, my dear, he’s a bachelor.”

“I’d enjoy meeting him, I’m sure, and you’re very kind toask me down, but you see——”

“No, I don’t.” Catherine subtracted the half of her attentionfrom the mirror and gave the whole to Dolores. “Idon’t see—and won’t—any reason in the world why youshouldn’t be more a member of this family. We are all veryfond of you and we know that you are superior to theposition you occupy. Life has been against you, that’s all.But I am for you. Haven’t you realized that fact yet?”

“I do appreciate your kindness—all the kindness whichhas been shown me in your house, Mrs. Cabot.”

“Then show your appreciation my way. Don’t spoil mypleasure by looking suspiciously on every decent deed I tryto do. You act, positively, as if you thought I was jealousof your looks. Why, you make a wonderful foil for me!Several have spoken of it. Even Dr. Shayle who, being redheadedhimself, has a natural preference for brunettes,agreed with me yesterday that you and I are as differentas two women could be. Do you know——”

Catherine hesitated, as if from modesty. When she continuedit was with that air of saying something especiallythoughtful and original with which she now and then substantiatedher claim to “brains.”

“Of course everybody has some favorite type of femininebeauty. This man admires a woman in whom his best friendcan’t see any charm. A third appreciates another whose goodlooks neither of the first two will admit. And so on. Butabout myself—— It is a strange thing that when I was ayoung girl, every artist who came to my father’s house toexamine those alleged ‘old masters’ I was telling you aboutused to beg to paint me. I remember one of them explainingit by the theory that a golden blond is humanized sunshine—andthat sunshine is something craved by everyone. Perhapsit sounds vain for me to repeat, but they were agreedthat my type was the only one universally admired.”

Far from thinking her vain, Dolores almost envied her thepleasure she could take in her own looks. People generallyspoke of “the beautiful Mrs. Cabot,” perhaps for just thatreason—that people generally enjoyed sunshine.

“And now that I am trying to shed some few beams yourway, you spoil the spirit of the thing right at the start. Youmight think of others than yourself.”

That the reproach had effect on Dolores showed in thestartled question of the purple-black eyes. Catherine proceededto reply:

“We’re not so happy in this shell of a home but that wemight be happier. I am not speaking of myself so much as—asmy husband. He needs cheering up and I, somehow,have lost the power to cheer him. I’ve thought that perhapsyou could help. Despite his taciturnity, he likes you forwhat you have done for Jack. If you wouldn’t be so shywith him, would just talk to him naturally, study him andtry to please him, you know, you would be accomplishing—well,more than you possibly can realize. I’d be in yourdebt, not you in mine. You’ve never received anything approachingan order since you came to us, have you? And,Heaven knows, I don’t wish you to consider anything I suggestin that light. Only I should like you to join us at dinnerto-night.”

Rufus Holt was dapper in stature, but of an expansivepersonality. Although crinkled around the eyes and slightlybald, he had the spontaneity of eternal youth. From firstglance, he directed toward Dolores a sort of friendly homage.

“I like the way you acknowledge an introduction,” he confidedduring their first five minutes. “The exaggerateddelight with which most everybody takes most everybodyelse for granted is absurd, isn’t it? Without a word, MissTrent, you’ve done a rather remarkable thing—given alawyer a brand-new thought.”

Dolores was pleased that he so quickly found somethingabout her to like. She expanded under his persiflage.

“I never learned ‘manners’ in any school,” she deprecated,“but I’ve tried to teach myself by behaving like the people Iadmire.”

“Well, give up! I don’t think you could act the least bitlike anybody else if you tried, any more than——” Themirth lines around Holt’s eyes uncrinkled as, silently, heappreciated her in the mist-gray gown. “A dove justcouldn’t waddle like a goose,” he finished. “Don’t let anybodychange your first bow. It is perfect—no undue cordialityabout it, any more than undue hauteur. You do itgravely, simply, hopefully. Just now you gave me one quick,enquiring glance to see whether you were glad to meet me,before you committed yourself by saying so. I’ll take abet you don’t know my name.”

Dolores looked embarrassed. “That wouldn’t be a fairbet. You see, Mrs. Cabot told me beforehand.”

“Honest, too! What are your faults?” He laughed.

Catherine returned to them from an aside with Bradish.If the governess looked a mauve-and-rose-breasted dove tothe facile-tongued attorney, madame was a bird of Paradisein her topaz velvet and high-massed, glinting, silver-goldhair. And her evening manner matched the brilliancy of herattire.

“Latest reports from the front are that John will be down—well,when John is down,” she announced. “Things neverhappen in this house, even food, until John is down.”

“It is gossip on the Street that some bricks of his Wallhave caved in,” Holt offered. “He never in his life kepta woman waiting unless obliged to. You see, Miss Trent,we men who know John Cabot like to brag about him. Weconsider him the best example extant of the fairness ofthe unfair sex.”

“Oh, John’s a hero, no doubt of that!” Catherine’s out-flungglittering hands illustrated her somewhat contemptuousattitude toward most things which others approved, her husbandincluded. “Heroes are all right when one is young andunsophisticated, but they do seem stereotyped to a grown-up.Don’t you think so? You always know exactly whatthey are going to do. The villains, now, are more interesting.There’s some excitement in learning the worst aboutthem—always a chance for something unexpected. Theymay even reform. You ought to agree with me, Rufus.”

“I might,” Holt returned, “but for certain suspicions asto which class you are consigning me. In all my comradeshipwith John I never felt sure of anything connected withwhat he was going to do except that it would be the squarething when done.”

The small controversy was closed by the appearance of itssubject. As he stood looking in on them from the doorway—themaster of the house—he was photographed on Dolores’memory. Clean-cut against the vista of the dim-lit foyer inhis evening black and white, his hands depending stiffly, hishead side-set, he suggested controlled power.

From his first surprised glance at herself, she appreciatedthat he had been unprepared for the presence of the governess.But his wife’s expectant eyes also were upon her.

Licensed by the fact that she had not seen him in a coupleof days, Dolores offered him her hand in greeting andlooked up into his face when he stooped to touch for thebriefest of moments her finger-tips. Yesterday she wouldhave veiled her admiration. To-night she had a prescribedpart to play. She could not help regretting the overture,however, when she saw his smile recede; realized that hehad turned, without a word, away from her. A pressurehurt her throat. But she cheered at Catherine’s encouragingnod. Remembering those in-caving bricks of his down-town“Wall,” she forgave the forbidding attitude of one said tobe so just.

When dinner was announced, she obeyed Catherine’ssignal that she take the arm of the host. On their strollthrough the great hall toward the dining-room, she foundoccasion to thank him for the latest Cabot gift.

“The dress—that I gave you?” His tone was mildly exclamatory.

“You and Mrs. Cabot.”

“So I gave you that dress?” he asked more easily. “Ofcourse we are getting on toward Christmas. Then I amprepared for little surprises like this—have to go around, youknow, asking everybody what I gave them. I wonder why—thedress?”

She tried not to show how disconcerted she felt. “Mrs.Cabot said it was because I get along so well with Jack,although that’s nothing to reward me so beautifully for.Getting on with Jack is its own reward.”

“To be sure,” he murmured, as though his memory hadbeen jogged. “To be sure,” he repeated, his eyes upon thevelvet V of his wife’s back.

“No matter why you made the gift, Mr. Cabot, it is anevent in my life. To-night is the first time I’ve ever beenin evening dress.”

At last he looked down at her and interestedly.

Dolores felt both pleased and abashed. Never, she realized,had she worn anything so becoming as this gown. Itsdelicate gray increased, rather than shamed the pallor andtexture of her skin. Its rose seemed dimly to reflect thered of her lips, its mauve the deep purple of her eyes. Herhair, done low on her neck to hide as much as possible ofthe gleaming flesh which had not before been exposed to theeyes of man, made an oval, ebony frame for her face.

“Never having been a girl myself, I don’t suppose I realizejust what the first one means: Really, I didn’t suppose Ihad such good taste.” With which ambiguous comment hewithdrew both eyes and interest. Evidently the subject ofherself was dismissed.

Despite the lessons of her past, Dolores felt disappointed.The Rev. Alexander Willard had looked at her often andlong. Seff had looked at her and looked again. As shewent about the city, strangers filled her with uneasiness bytheir stares. She supposed she should be glad that oneman was superior to the attraction of looks which she hadbeen forced to conclude were unusual. She should be glad,yes. And yet, she caught herself wishing that this man, onthis occasion——

Through that never-to-be-forgotten dinner—the firstformal one of her life—she made effort to adapt herself asa unit of the quartette and to attend Mrs. Cabot’s conversewith something the responsiveness of Rufus Holt. Herawe of Bradish and the second butler she conquered enoughto sample the dishes passed. She became sufficiently accustomedto the candle-light to appreciate this and that detail—thedrawn-work dinner cloth, the Sheffield service, thegleam of a fountain playing Nature’s music in the conservatorybeyond. She commented on the match of the fulvid,velvety orchids that formed the centerpiece with theirhostess’ gown. With the rest she sipped of a vintagerecommended by their host as from the fore-stocked Cabotcellar.

“You’ll go far these dry days and drink—well, perhaps toomuch, to find better Burgundy than this,” he said. “It isneither too thick nor too thin; neither sweet nor sour;smooth and gentle, yet not heady. And the color——Hasn’t it the rich red of dreams come true?”

“Speaking of color, John,” the attorney suggested, “areyou noticing the rare contrast between two ladies fairto-night?”

John Cabot nodded and glanced abstractedly into his wife’spleased, expectant face, but omitted altogether to look thegoverness’ way.

“Thank Heaven, I’m single. I can enjoy such things.”Holt laughed.

“You mean,” John corrected, “you can enjoy them outloud.”

“And why can’t you, John?” Catherine protested. “Naturallyand connubially, you find it rather dull paying complimentsto me, but certainly Miss Trent deserves a few. Whyin the world don’t you warm up?”

“I am warming up,” he replied, his dry smile all forthe wet wine in his glass.

She showed increased dissatisfaction over his impersonalities.“You sound and look distrait to-night. Are youworried, dear? Rufus told us something about bricks fallingon the Street. Is it true that you were hit?”

“Hard hit.”

“You mean that you lost money?”

“Lost?” He spoke with vague surprise. “Can I everlose? Alas, no. While the rumor-mongers were spreadingthe report which Rufus heard about my losses, I made—made—made.”

“You funny, clever John! Tell me”—a gleam lit thewife’s eyes—“was it much that you made?”

“Too much. It is disconcerting to gather in upward of amillion unintentionally.”

“A million? John! Won’t you tell us how you did it? Inever tire of your coups.”

Dolores felt relieved and extremely glad to see her interestand pride in her husband. Surely not even the exactingCatherine could fail to care for such a man! In that momentbetween demand and response, she decided definitely to forgetas unworthy of herself, of the mother of Jack and ofJohn Cabot the presumptions of the Marquis d’Elie. Undoubtedlythey were—well, just d’Elie’s presumptions.

“And you never will tire, eh, so long as I win?” John’ssomewhat cynical glance transferred from his wife’sHeaven-blue eyes to those of his longtime friend. “I’vespoken to you before, Rufus, of having been nagged for thepast year by an idea that Europe has been suffering lessfrom the effects of war than from the effects of peace.Some time ago I underwrote a loan to help the Poles againstthe Bolsheviki. With the ‘Red’ army threatening Warsawfrom the north and east, it looked for a while as if my investmentin real peace was to be wiped out.”

“And to-day the cables brought the news——” insertedHolt.

“Exactly.” John shrugged as if at catastrophe. “AfterWeygand broke the Russian center and retired the right,none of the host that swept down on the Polish capital survivedbut a handful of fugitives.”

To this laconic recital of the high-finance of war, thefeminine contingent listened with diverse interest. ToDolores it was evident that, for their benefit, he had strippedof technicalities some gigantic map-changing feat to whichhe had played financial generalissimo. She, too, was stirredby his success, even though her casual perusal of newspaperheadlines scarcely fitted her to grasp its entirety. Fromwatching the grown-up of Jack’s whimsical smile, she turnedagain to enjoy the reflex of triumph on Catherine’s alertface.

“It would seem that your guardian angel is working overtimewhen you can’t lose even to the grasping Soviet.Isn’t it just too pathetic!” The unwonted gleam still lit hereyes, as she turned them upon the governess. “Can’t you,my dear, say something to cheer this victim of good luck?”

At the direct appeal, Dolores straightened. She must notfail Mrs. Cabot who was trying so kindly to bring her out,she adjured herself. To be dull when so much had beendone to brighten her was rank ingratitude. She mustbe gay.

“Would that I were witty, like you good folks!” shewished, with a shy, admiring glance among them.

“And aren’t you?” Holt asked.

“I used to try hard to be. I never was quite comfortableuntil I gave it up. It was like release from bondage when Idecided one day to be just sincere. I do sincerely congratulateMr. Cabot——”

“Don’t you ever change your mind,” the enthusiasticlawyer interrupted. “Scarce were we properly introduced,Miss Trent and I, when by this sincerity which she depreciatesshe thrilled me with a beautiful perception.”

“How nice, Rufus, that you still thrill,” Catherine commentedwith a particularly guileless smile.

“Over anything that is good of its kind,” he amplified.“Such success as I have had at the bar, I owe to thatcapacity. To me nothing can be more thrilling than thesudden sight of human character. This perception that Ihave had—this beautiful sight that I have seen—— Perhaps,John, you will let me toast it with your wonderfulwine?”

At his host’s encouraging nod, Holt arose and fixed hiseyes on the frieze with the twitching smile of inspiration.After a pause, he began:

“I do not give you Wine, Woman and Song. No, nothingso new as that! But it is a song I give—a song ofwoman and wine. In varying vintages we drink inspirationfrom the sweetness or tartness, the smoothness, gentlenessand headiness of women—we men. From the co*cktail Girl,of whom a little is enough, to good old Mother Cordial, whocalms us with her seasoned satisfactions, we have much toenjoy. Here is Champagne.”

Lifting from beside his plate the tall-stemmed glass half-fullof bubbling amber, he bowed toward the yellow velvetvision.

“How it sparkles, infects our moods, dares us into animation!If only it would never let us down to normal again—wouldnever cease to sparkle—Champagne!”

As if by chance, his boyish smile left Catherine’s pleasedface and strayed Dolores’ way. With a kiss of the rim, hereplaced the tall glass upon the cloth. His fingers loosed itsslender stem; found a smaller glass; raised it.

“Once in a lifetime you meet a woman who is like thisdeep red Burgundy. Does it need to speak—the wine—toboast its color, its fragrance, its power? See, it is too richfor the eye to penetrate; there is not a bubble in it to suggestit* life; it is topped by no froth. All too quietly, itoffers us sensation. And we sip of it—delight. And wedrink deep—intoxication.

“The woman who is like the deep, red wine—once in alifetime we meet her. No need for her to laugh with us, tocoquette, even to speak. Her personality is an alluring hue.She gives off a fragrance of soul that drowns gross thought.Without words she promises all emotions—life. She, likethe wine, needs only to be.

“I do not give you Wine, Woman and Song; nothing sonew as that. I sing, friends, an older song—the woman,man’s wine!”

Silence held the little group as Holt ceased to speak. Withhis left hand he patted the bald spot upon his head, as ifdoubtful of the wisdom of having broached his “beautifulperception.” Then, slowly, his smile reappeared, as thoughfrom frank pleasure over a creditable performance. Withlifted glass he turned to their host.

Dolores also turned.

But John Cabot did not meet their gaze—either her ownor that of his friend. And he did not speak. He was, however,the first to drain his Burgundy.

The girl wondered at the gleam in his eyes. Never hadshe seen him look that way before. It seemed soon for evenso excellent a potion to have had effect.

CHAPTER XIV

Falltime was well gone for the year. Yet in the rigorsof winter a flower came to bloom in the heart of DoloresTrent. Petal-soft had opened the peace of her to-day.Warm-hued glowed the hope of to-morrow. As thoughnone such ever had pricked her mind were the thorn-fearsof yesterday.

She first consciously viewed the miracle on a sharplybright afternoon when she and young Jack had crossed theAvenue for one of the strolls in Central Park which she wasteaching him to enjoy. The fact that she had reached contentglinted into her realization from off the sunlight. Thegreen grass surviving the patches of snow, the birds dartinghither and yon on their unaccountable errands, the branchesswaying tractably to the breeze—each sight and sound aboutthem accented the harmony with Nature of her changedmood. Hitherto, memories of her past had spoiled the presentwith dread of what the future might be. To-day thepast was crowded into its proper position as the mere backgroundof her life. So full of enjoyment was the presentthat she seemed almost—almost to have reached the future.

And her mental state seemed to have blessed her chargelike a benediction. No longer did the cripple’s features twistinto snarls at sight of more agile children at play. To hisprecocious mind had been submitted the law of compensation.Constantly reminding himself that there was meant tobe no perfect earthly state, he compared nurse-maids andmothers unfavorably with his governess-pal; buttoned hiscoat thoughtfully when he passed a youngster in rags whocould run; tilted his head farther to one side when a rheumy-eyedwreck of a father on a bench pointed the contrast withthat of his god-man, his “John Cabot.”

“It is fun being happy,” he asserted gnomically.

“It is—it is,” she agreed, with conviction equal to his own.

“I think I have learned how to be happy more from you,’Lores, than from Dick. But I don’t mind acknowledgingthat I was all wrong about the way I treated him beforeyou came. Don’t you think he ’preciates, though, that I’vetried to make it up to him? The way he pecks around myfingers when I hold his lettuce-leaf shows he’s not afraid ofme any more. And the way he sings! ’Lores, when heperks his head on one side, just like John and me, andfixes his shiny eyes on mine—— D’you know, I think heis awful fond of me, ’spite of the way I acted. It makes mefeel——” In the act of drooping, the over-large, brown-croppedhead threw bravely back. “It makes me ashamed,”he finished. “Don’t you suppose we could let Dick out ofthe cage a while each day, just to give him a little the feelingthat he’s free?”

“Of course we could, Jackie. I am sure he’d soon learnto stay inside your rooms. He has more philosophy thanyou’d credit to his size or he’d never sing as he does in acage.”

The lad’s eyes up-flashed a radiant look. “I’d be relieveda lot to see Dick get something out of his life. I’d feel abetter right to enjoy something awful wonderful that’s goingto happen to me to-day. You won’t be cross that I’ve kept ita secret from you? I wanted to s’prise you. But I intendedall along to tell you first of anybody. ’Lores——”

His slithering gait stopped in the center of the path thathe might grasp her two hands instead of the one. Throughthe fur lining of his gloves she could feel the jump of hispulse. Looking down, she saw a sort of solemn joy uponhis wizened little face. From under the beautiful sweep ofhis lashes gleamed what she had not seen there before, tears.

“John’s going to bring me the dog, ’Lores,” he announcedin a voice surcharged with unchildlike feeling. “I neverasked him again after that day. You know—the day youcame—when two of the gold-fish died? It was he took thatmagazine with the kennel advertisem*nt I had marked. Youremember that we never could find it? That was a longtime ago and I was afraid John had forgotten. But hehadn’t. I guess he never forgets anything. He saved theaddress and he’s got me one of the breed of that picture. Itmeans more to me than getting what he’s never let me have,a live puppy. It means——”

“That your father trusts you now. Oh, Jack darling, Iam so glad for you!” With emotion equal to his ownDolores filled in when the child-voice broke.

“And, ’Lores——” excitement fortified him, “he’s bringingit to-day—probably this very hour. I left word withBradish the direction we were taking and just where we’drest. But I guess, after all, we’d better go back. My dogmightn’t like it if I wasn’t home when he arrived. Naturallyhe’ll be anxious to get acquainted with his boy. Let’s startback.”

Despite Dolores’ readiness, he still hesitated.

“I kind of don’t feel that I dare be so happy, ’Lores, whenI know you get sorry sometimes. You’re not to be sorry anymore. I’ve explained to John about why I want to take careof you always. I’m not too little now to look after you andwhen I grow up I intend to make you awful happy. I’d liketo tell you now that special name for you that I——”

The girl had to lean low to catch his confession. Butnot for all the lesser joys of her life would she have missedit. On her knees in the gravel of the path she held him forone precious moment to her heart. Although quickly sherestrained herself in order not to offend his idea of big-boydecorum and although the homeward pace set by his physicallimitations was slow, she seemed to walk on air—seemed tohave realized in her virginity the joy of motherhood.

For once Jack’s anxiety to precede his hero home had beenwell advised. It took time to reach the nearest exit, thento retrace their steps up-town along the pavement thatfronted the park wall. Scarcely had they come opposite theCabot block when they saw John in riding clothes about tomount the white Arabian which was the chief of his relaxations.

Scuttling to his side the curb, John, Jr., announced theirreturn in his lustiest shout. Dolores understood the excitementwhich had snatched his hand from hers when shenoticed that a scraggly Airedale puppy was tucked under theleft parental elbow.

For the moment the “Stop” sign of the traffic policemanat the crossing just below had cut off the flow of vehicles.John Cabot, hearing and seeing his son, returned to thegroom the reins of his horse. By neck-nap he held up thewriggling symbol of re-established faith; then, stooping,set the young dog on his feet and started him across thestreet to meet the lad who had earned his ownership.

Jack’s whistle of encouragement was out-shrilled by the“Go” blast from below. The puppy, despite the wobblinessof his legs, evidently had lived to learn. The louder thewhistle, the stronger the canine obligation. His stub tailstraight up, his square-chopped jowl low, his ears flat-pointedtoward his goal, he set off in form that would have doneproud his bull-terrier and otter-hound ancestors toward thepoliceman down the street.

Jack took after him. At a pace of which Dolores wouldnot have believed him capable, with his overly-long armsoutstretched and his head lopping well to one side, he slitheredregardlessly into the crush of traffic. As one, thefather and the governess realized his danger. From oppositecurbs, both started after him. The Airedale, although debarredby youth from discrimination, showed that he hadinherited speed. But Jack, urged beyond thought of self bydesire to rescue his new and dear possession, gained in thepursuit. Lunging close, he reached for the waggling stubtail. Almost did he grasp it. Almost did he, as well as thedog, reach the safety zone.

On the right side of the Avenue, John Cabot had beenhindered by the up-streaking cars. On the left, Doloresmight have been in time, except that a misguided citizen,seeing a woman rush directly in front of a heavy car, laidviolent hands upon her and dragged her back. Her shriekmingled with the automobile’s siren. Above both warningsthe traffic whistle shrilled and shrilled again.

The movement of the street scene suddenly ceased. Eachcar was brought up short. Pedestrians stood to stare, as ifunder some horrid spell. Even the puppy paused at therepetition of the command which before had moved him.At the worst possible moment for the continuation of thehouse of Cabot, a sport car had spun around the corner.

The case was one of the present-day many too brief foremergency brakes. The tires smoked with the startleddriver’s shout. But from the victim there came not theslightest protest.

In another moment, all was motion again. John Cabotgathered the lax form of his son into his arms. A detachedlook was on his face as he answered the questions of thepoliceman and other eye witnesses. But while he noddedvaguely and gave his name and address in a quiet voice, heremembered everything, even the puppy. Dolores took upthe search of his eyes; followed and picked up the confusedlittle dog. She felt a resentment very like hate at the insinuatingway he wagged his tail, as though trying to humbugher into approval of his conduct When she rejoinedJohn——

“Come, Dolores,” he said.

Always before he had called her “Miss Trent.”

When they reached the wrought-iron gate into the Cabotgrounds he stepped aside for her to precede him. That heshould think of the puppy and her before himself——

Even in that first full hour, she was impressed by thesesmall remembrances. They told her more of the man thanall the greater things which had been accredited to him.

She it was who led the way around the clustered shrubberyand past the dryad of the cynical smirk. At the steps shehad to right herself from stumbling. Although she was notweeping, she could not see.

“Jackie.... Jack!”

She had not spoken his name; merely had thought it in ahurting dread for herself as well as for him. Was catastrophealways to follow her? Had she brought it upon the boy bygrowing so close to him through love? That name he hadrevealed—his “secret” name for her—had that aught to dowith the close-heeling of tragedy?

“Other mother,” was what he had called her.

Other mother!

No. The accident was to have been. It could not occurbecause he had whispered a precious name. With passionatejealousy, she defended his tribute. She would—she musthave that.

Along about midnight and quite unexpectedly, Jackbecame conscious. His mind seemed to open with his eyes.He saw his father first, seated on one side of the historicbed, then glanced about until he found Dolores on the other.

From the outer room could be heard the deep-breathingof the celebrated surgeon who had performed the operation.He had preferred to spend the night there, awaiting results.The nurse, too, had been persuaded to a brief rest, sinceMr. Cabot and the governess elected to keep the watch.

The mother who, all evening, had been in a “state” ofgrief bordering on hysteria, had been retired to her ownapartment by one of her headaches and Dr. Shayle. Aremark made to the osteopath in a quite calm voice, however,had suggested that already she had found relief fromthe shock.

“It will be better when it is all over,” she had said, turningwith one of her quavering, childlike smiles from placing arose between her son’s unresponsive fingers. “A lame ladcouldn’t have gone far in this rapid age.”

Dolores, overhearing, felt a sensation new to her. Bycontrast with its violence, she knew that it was not hate shefelt for the puppy. This was the first hate that had rackedher—this feeling for Catherine Cabot. “All over”—hismother to anticipate that!

Now that the boy’s eyes had opened and widened withrelief to find herself and John by the bed, the suggestionseemed more inhuman than before. She reached across totake away the rose of such cruel suggestiveness.

But Jack’s fingers now closed around the stem. His lipsmoved.

Both she and his father leaned close.

“Evening, John Cabot.”

“Jack Cabot, good evening.” In an effortful murmur theolder John made his usual reply.

“And you, ’Lores—— I am glad you are both—— Don’thave anyone else——” Jack’s voice dwindled. Then soonhe roused again. “If a picture was taken—of my heart, itwould show—just two faces, John’s and ’Lores’. You’ll takemy place, John—with Lores? You’ll try to make her happy—likeI meant to do? She never was—happy, you know—untilshe and Dick and I——”

The father’s whispered reassurance Dolores tried not tohear, just as she tried not to see the look on his face. Butwithout ears or eyes she must have heard and seen. Herheart was near breaking with grief for the two Johns.

“Anything you decide—all right with me. I can trust—herwith you. I’d like to see—my dog.”

Dolores lifted the young Airedale, which had been bitingat her skirt, to the edge of the bed and kept her hand on hiscollar while he wobbled over the coverlet and licked, in hisboisterous, insinuating way, the outstretched hand of “hisboy.” Soon she drew him away and replaced him on thefloor, from where he whimpered and coaxed to get up again.

John, the while, had replaced the rose in his son’s searchinghand.

They two sat watching the fingers that began to tear apartit* petals.

“You are wasting your rose, Jackie dear,” Dolores said,to keep his thoughts distracted from the puppy.

He paused, but evidently not at her protest. The twitteringof his canary in the other room seemed to disturb him.

“Poor Dick, he’s taking it hard,” he said and returned tothe destruction of the rose.

After all the petals lay plucked on the coverlet, he gatheredthem up in both hands. His gaze, too, settled on thesight of the crimson life-leaves sifting through his palefingers.

“See, they look prettier—and smell sweeter—than before,”he urged, his voice loudening from his effort to reassurethem. “The rose isn’t wasted. Nothing ever is. EvenI—am not wasted. I’ve never been what other boys—are.But I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to ’preciate you, John.Maybe if I hadn’t—you and ’Lores——”

His voice was cut by a hurting gasp. They hovered closeover him, watching the changes—from physical pain tomental relief—which drifted like sunshine after shadowsover his face.

Dolores would gladly have died to save him one pang; yetall she could do was to share his suffering. Her heartstopped beating from relief when the dark, appealing lashesswept back again. From far away, yet intensely, he lookedup at them.

“Remember, John and ’Lores, nothing’s—ever—wasted”

As he spoke, a light not from the night lamp was shaftedinto the room. Direct as a search-ray it found his face andsettled there.

At its touch Jack lifted to one elbow on the pillow, forgetfulof pain; gazed with an alert look into its unearthlyradiance; leant his head to one side, as if listening.

“I will come. I am coming,” he said.

“No, not yet, Jack—don’t go yet!” At last moved fromhis outer calm, the father threw forward his body to screenoff the sourceless shaft. But not the faintest shadow showed.Through his brawn the light glowed steadily. With a groanhe slid to his knees beside the ancestral bed and stretchedclutching hands across the counterpane as if longing, yet notdaring to drag back into the semi-gloom the last of the line.

His appeal sounded desperate—tortured from him.

“How can you leave me, boy? You are part of me, JackCabot. Don’t you realize that? You are all that I have.Don’t go yet awhile, my son—little crushed bone of mybone!”

Perhaps Jack heard. Perhaps he should have preferredto wait, if only for the “while” that his man-god craved.But his eyes did not lower from the blinding light or hishead relax from its listening slant. Any courteous desirewhich he may have had to stay was overruled by the authoritativecommand that had reached him. In a last effortto reassure the beloved two he must leave behind, he triedto smile—was able to whisper:

“I am not—afraid.... I see—the way.... Thelight——”

Through the numbness that made one pain of her heartand her head, Dolores remembered sometime afterward thatunprecedented midnight twittering which had disturbed theboy. Softly, so as not to awaken the great surgeon, shecrossed the living-room to the window. The canarygreeted her with no flutter of wings. She lifted the cage offits hook, carried it into the bedroom and placed it besidethe night lamp.

She and John Cabot stood in the utter silence whichseemed to fill the world, looking through the wires at thefluffed, yellow body that lay upon the floor of the cage.Indeed Dick had taken it “hard.” Jack’s wish for the smallcreature whose large love had made him “ashamed” wasfulfilled. His bird, too, had gone—set free.

CHAPTER XV

In justice to John Cabot, the spirit-girl Dolores relatednext an interview between the financier and his wife ofwhich she was told afterward. So she explained to herdemon audience when able to proceed.

Three days had passed since that incomprehensible thingmisnamed on Earth as “life” had departed the unsightlyphysical of the young heir. The great surgeon, after havingestablished—to his own satisfaction at least—that the patienthad died of “nerve shock” and not of an operation which hepronounced successful in all details, had departed with hischeck. The servants were recovering from the emotionaldebauch of the last offices and beginning to think consciously,rather than subconsciously, in terms of tasks.

The governess, immediately on her return from the cemeterywhere had been consigned to dust her second safelove, had sought the boy’s mother in her boudoir. She hadcome, she said, to express her appreciation of the manykindnesses heaped upon her and to announce her departure,since her engagement had come to so sudden and sad an end.

Catherine, however, had insisted that she stay on in thehouse; in a pitiful outburst had clung to her as the one whohad been nearest and dearest to the departed lad. Timeenough later to decide in what capacity she should remain.Her gentle companionship was “comforting” to the bereavedmother. She must not “desert.”

Dolores had hesitated, riven with doubts. She felt thatshe should go. Yet she longed to stay. Catherine wassuffering from one of the headaches which would seem tohave become chronic. Fragrant and pale as a valley-lilyin her crepe, she looked a lovely child, dependent upon kindness.Dolores glanced away from the dew-wet eyes andcompared her own sense of loss with what a mother’s mustbe. Although she had not forgotten that brutal anticipationof Jack’s death, hate hurt. Catherine looked in need offorgiveness and she—— She needed to forgive.

She was considering the somewhat vague disposal of hernear future when Mr. Cabot knocked. Advised by the setlook of his face and his grave manner, she at once excusedherself; left them alone. Following is the conversationbetween them, as reported to her later on.

“This is the first time in several years that you, my weddedlord, have visited my rooms. To what do I owe the ratherunusual honor?” Catherine asked.

“To a rather unusual request.”

John did not draw up the chair toward which she hadwaved him. He stood through the interview—stood orpaced from one object to another of the luxurious room.At times he stopped quite near the chaise longue where shesat propped up by cushions, to study her guileless face andthe suffering air with which she sniffed a gold bottle of salts.

“The boy is dead, Catherine.”

“Yes, John.”

“I loved the boy.”

“I believe you did. Still, he must have been a great disappointmentto a fine specimen like you.”

The compliment was repeated in her appreciative, upliftedgaze. But he felt far from pleased.

“You will oblige me by not referring to Jack’s infirmityagain. He was the only creature I’ve had to love since mymother, and I loved him as he was. You and I, Catherine,should be the last to depreciate him for what he symbolized.”

“Symbolized? Oh, don’t tell me that again!”

“Your criticism forces me to remind you. Outwardly ourson was the symbol of our malformed union.”

“John, what a grim thought!”

“Grim as the inheritance law—even to the third and fourthgeneration. He paid the price in his person of our crime ingiving him birth. Through our fault, not his own, his bodywas warped and his temper uncertain. I often rememberedwhen I looked at him—remembered that no amount of lovewas enough to atone for the wrong we had done him. I, forone, am grateful that we three were spared the greaterpunishment. So easily, in the sardonic scheme of things,the soul of him, too, might have been warped. But his wasas gallant and large and sweet as ever outgrew injustice.”

The implications against herself had turned Catherine toone of the many mirrors conveniently placed.

“How can you take such stern pride in your loyalty? Youused to say, you know, that you loved me.”

He, also, studied her reflection.

“I suppose you would call that a self-respecting statement?All right, we’ll give it the benefit of my doubt that it ismere vanity. I did love what I thought you were. But thatwas taken away, like my mother—like Jack.”

She showed the flurry that caught her up wheneverinspired by one of her “brainy” thoughts.

“Has a man a right to think things about a womanwhich aren’t true, marry her on the strength of them andthen blame her for the rest of their unnatural lives becausehe made a mistake?”

“In our case I had—every right. Have you forgottenthe details of our first meeting, Catherine? Your father hadinvited me to the house really to see you, not the pictures hehoped to sell me. Your mother had selected me, sightunseen, by virtue of my bank account. They helped you tomake an impression on me which all of you knew to befalse. You were dressed in white, which you afterward toldme you never expected to wear again until your funeral.You looked innocent and tender and dependent—all of whichyou were not. You sat upon a hassock and played with awhite Persian kitten—oh, every detail of the studied effectmade a lasting impression upon me! You had well-developedclaws then, but you held them in far more carefully than didthe kitten. Later, I learned, with quite a shock, that youdetested cats. Yet you held this one to your cheek andunderstudied its appeal to the best of your feline ability.”

“Thanks for admitting that I have some sort of ability,”the gentle voice purred.

“You have more than ability. You have positive power.”

“My dear John! But don’t pay me all your stored-upcompliments in one visit. Save some and call again.”

“You have that most potent of acquisitive forces, unassailableegotism. I used to look into the faces of the paintedparasites riding along Fifth Avenue in their cars and wonderwhy so much was laid at their feet. That was before Ilearned—you.”

“To think that you, John, should learn anything fromme!”

“Egotism is the most acquiring force in the world. Allgreat men have it, but in them it is covered or excused bytheir greatness. All women successful with men have it tothe degree of a sort of hypnotism. They blind men to whatthey are with the bright light of what they think they are.You, for instance, think so well of yourself that one needsstrong lenses to see your faults. I used to hope that you’ddim some day—have a doubt of yourself. But you neverdid. You are all strength in your egotism.”

Hard words they were, yet sadly spoken. During themthe beautiful subject had wavered between pique and pleasure.At their finish, she offered her child-sweet laugh.

“After this, I can refuse you nothing. Name the ratherunusual favor which you say you have come to ask!”

“I wish you, Catherine, to get a divorce.”

“You—you want a divorce?”

Astonishment overcame both pique and pleasure.

“The boy was our only link. Now that he is gone, freeme. You may have the money—as much of it as you want.I can make more. Of late I’ve had literally forced on meplenty of that which is my value in your eyes. I’ll try tomeet any demands you make. You see, I assume that youhave no reason other than money for keeping up this pretenselonger.”

“So, it has come to this?”

Both face and form relaxed as she coaxed the cushions togive her greater comfort. The astonishment in her eyes hadbeen replaced by shrewdness; that, in turn, by mild amusem*nt.But the golden lines of her eye-brows were arched,as always when she was at mental tension.

“Do you intend this request, my hitherto immaculate John,to be taken as a confession of guilt?”

“Guilt?”

The one repeated word, weighted by disgust, was the wholeof his denial.

“Whence—where—how, then, a divorce, without cause?Are we not citizens of the supposedly respectable commonwealthof New York?”

“There is Reno.”

“Reno!” As if from force of her emphasis, Catherinesprang up from her lounge, crossed the room and faced him.“So you’ve been calculating on Reno? A nice, chivalrousplan—for me to endure such tedium and long-suffering tooblige you with a divorce! Four days’ train travel fromNew York and six months’ residence in a Wild West town inthe kind of hotel that has only one bath to a floor andwouldn’t know what you meant by à la carte if you spelledit backward and translated it into Indian. My dear husband,what could you offer that would repay me for one of thoseawful exiles in Nevada’s make-believe metropolis?”

“What sum has d’Elie named?”

“John! Are you trying to insult me?”

“No, Catherine. I am trying to settle with you.”

For a tight-strung moment man and wife regarded eachthe other, he not unkindly, she with twisting lips. The next,she turned and herself began to glide from object to object ofthe room, as if she too were strange to them. When sheagain stopped before him, her face had beautified. She laida hand upon his arm.

“Tell me, why a divorce, dear?”

“Why not a divorce?” His eyes held forbiddingly onthe clutch of her polish-pointed fingers. “Let’s not go intounnecessary explanations. I understand something of yourambitions and shall be glad to help you achieve them. Youwill wear a title well—one thing that I could never give you.And you’ll do better, I am sure, with a man whose devotionis for hire.”

“A beautiful sentiment, as Clarke Shayle would say,” shecommented. “It is fortunate that I didn’t marry you forany supposed amiability. As for yourself?”

“As for myself——” He flung off the hand that stillclung, a note of passion in his voice. “Has your memoryutterly failed you, Catherine? Can’t you or won’t youremember what I used to be? Once I tried to make youunderstand something of what I hoped from life and love.Do you suppose that it has been comfortable for me toappear a stone man? You don’t want me. Let me find a life—perhapseven love—for myself. Oh, Catherine, you usedat least to seem kind in the early days! Try to be a littlekind again.”

“Just kind enough to free you. And she?”

Certainly there was no promise in the bite of her responseor the curiosity with which she eyed the emotion on hisface.

In reply to her question, John Cabot simply looked at her—awarning look, known and feared on the Street.

“This lady with whom you hope to find life and love—didshe suggest the plan to lay me on the shelf?” Catherineinquired. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, they say.Of course I can’t blame her for wishing to take advantageof poor Jack’s death by——”

“That will do, Catherine.” He voiced the warning look.“There is no other woman in my life.”

As if relieved of an unhappy suspicion, she lifted a smileof the self-believing sort which ten years before would haveblinded him to the lies behind her lips.

“Then why,” she asked, “suggest the Union Pacific—theroad to Reno? How can you, a mere husband, feel surethat you know your wife’s heart? I defy the laws of Nevadaor any other state to give you the key. What if I should saythat I still do want you?”

“You cannot say that and speak the truth.”

In his positiveness she saw that her past power to beguilehim indeed was gone. But no ineffectualness on that accountdepressed her, as proved by the light laugh with which shereturned to the pleasanter assurances of her mirror.

“You are right. I hope you are as grateful as I am thatI can’t. I’d be bored to extinction with the ordinary statecalled ‘marital bliss,’ either with a man who doted upon meor one upon whom I doted. Fact is——” Bending closerto the glass, she focused into the twin pair of eyes a lookof assured capability, “I never did care for you. Lately Iquite dislike you. You are, you know, superior. I don’twish to be superior myself and I resent people who are.There now! You say you like honesty—won’t you give mea good mark?”

With one of her unaccountable transitions, her mannerchanged from frank spite to pathos. Brushing her handacross her eyes, as if to hide from him any sign of thefeeling to which she had declared herself immune, she crossedto the window and leaned, looking out, against the effectivebackground of its bronze hanging.

“No, my only husband—the answer is no.” The cynicismin what she said was weakened by the way she said it. “I’msorry to refuse any little request of yours, but I cannot giveyou up. And I don’t think, really, that you have been quitenice. Since the challenge was to come from you, you mighthave been heroic enough to let me name the weapons—swordsor pistols, you know—that impossible Reno or NewYork. Don’t you think yourself that you have added insultto injury?”

He did not dignify the appeal with a reply. He was aboutto go; had bowed to her formally and was crossing to thedoor.

“John, dear.”

Her quavery cry stopped him on the threshold.

She followed him and stood with her gold-gloried headhung low over her twisting hands. “You say I have lost allkindness, John. I think you have. You are not what youused to be, any more than am I. You haven’t had a thoughtfor me in what you ask. Perhaps a man cannot realizewhat it means to a woman to—to be faced with a demandlike yours of to-day. For me to divorce you for desertingme—to admit to our world that you have tired of me—— Evensupposing there is nothing to me but what you say,don’t you know that would crucify my vanity? But thereis more to me, John. I once was that kitten-girl you thoughtme. At times—even yet—I have my softer feelings. I amused to compliments and I—I am hurt to the heart by yourinsult.”

John did not take advantage of her pause. He continuedto wait and wonder.

“I see far less beautiful women than I being understoodand appreciated,” she continued after a quivering sigh. “Isit too much that I ask to be endured? And yet, I don’t wantto ask that—I really don’t. I want you to be happy, but—— Oh,John, why couldn’t you have waited until I’d recovered?What with the accident and poor Jack’s death and the funeraland now this, I feel that I’ve had almost more than I canstand. To-day my head aches until——”

Again she paused. And again he did not speak.

“Dr. Shayle says that I ought to go away somewhere for achange of air and scene,” she continued after a moment, ina lower, more pathetic voice. “I was hesitating, in my mistakenviewpoint, feeling that I shouldn’t leave you in thehouse alone just at this time. But after what you’ve said tome I see that you’d be glad to have me go. I’ll startto-morrow for—for somewhere—anywhere.”

Soon her sobs allowed her to add: “And I’ll think thingsover while I’m gone, dear. Perhaps, when I get used to youridea, it won’t sound so brutal as it does to-day. I just mightcome to see it more your way. Or perhaps you will miss meenough to—to——”

He realized that she was giving him every chance, butstill failed to improve it.

With only a reproachful glance for his lack of generosity,she changed the subject. “I want to speak to you about onething in particular. It’s Miss Trent. As you may know, Ihave conceived an unusual affection for her. I don’t feelthat we should send a young creature of her beauty and fatalcharm out into the world again. On account of her devotionto Jackie and the wonderfully good influence she exertedover him, I feel the responsibility of seeing her safely settled,either with us or elsewhere. She is really quite refined.And how her looks came out in that evening dress I—wegave her! For one, I don’t intend that the he-wolves outsideshall get on the trail again of a girl who was so dear to our—ourboy.”

“Your sentiments do you proud, Catherine.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, John. You may think I have no heart,but there are people who wouldn’t agree with you. Dolores,for instance. I show her every day my appreciation for whatshe did for Jack.”

“And I intend to show mine,” John inserted quietly, “bysome suitable arrangement and provision. Jack’s last requestwas that I look out for her. I, too, have a high opinion ofMiss Trent.”

“Then do, John, unbend toward her! You treat her—really—likea servant in the house. It offends my finersensibilities to see how afraid the poor thing is of you. Youcan’t doubt her devotion to the boy. Try to realize, as I do,that her heart is aching for him almost as much as our own.Be kinder to her while I’m gone, won’t you, John?”

“Don’t worry. I shall be kind to her.”

“I do thank you for that promise. You’re a dear. Ishould have worried for fear you’d hurt her hyper-sensitivefeelings in some way—as—as you’ve hurt mine. You see,she has agreed to stay on in the house at least until I getback. I’ve made her believe that I need someone aboveMorrison to look after things in my place.”

“In that case,” said John, “I shall move to one of theclubs.”

“Oh, no,” she protested. “Dolores would suspect that youhad been driven out of your home and be most uncomfortable.It isn’t at all necessary for you to go.”

“Pardon me. I think it is.”

He left her, disappointed and dismayed. The “mere husband”of her accusation, he felt he must have misunderstoodhis wife. That affection for him should outweigh hercupidity seemed incredible. And yet what else could haveprompted her refusal of his “rather unusual” request?

CHAPTER XVI

Who does not find the intermission tedious after the tragicsecond act? The curtain has lowered between you andknowledge of what the end of the play is to be. Over theauditorium side of the footlights the indirect glow from domeand gallery flares. You straighten and turn to your friends.You see them brush the damp from their eye-lashes; hearthem clear the husk from their voices; appreciate that they,as well as you, are groping back to reality. But you resentyour friends; resent yourself; resent reality. It is a poorexchange for the make-believe whose artistry has humbleda thousand egos into a unit—an audience.

Because so essentially temporary, the intermission is astrain. And if to you, how much more to the actors, alsowaiting behind the scenes, whose ecstasies have brought thegreat sophisticated house to tears!

The week following Mrs. Cabot’s departure from herFifth Avenue mansion was one of poignant loneliness forDolores Trent. Strangely enough, however, she refusedsuch companionship as offered. When good Mrs. Morrisonurged that she come down to the cheerful first-floor parlorat tea-time or in the evenings, she plead the necessity ofbrushing-up on the languages upon which she depended forher next position. So almost painful to one of her yieldinghabits were her frequent refusals to see Dr. Shayle that sheleft a standing “Not-at-home” with those who answered thedoor and telephone.

With none to give her orders, she looked for things to doand tried to the full of her gentle authority to maintaindiscipline in the establishment, as when the Cabots were athome. That, so far as she knew at the time, was madame’schief reason for leaving her in charge. Tactfully she submittedsuggestions for increased orderliness to the housekeeper.She instructed the yard-man according to her ownideas of the winter needs of the trees and shrubs under hischarge. A stable-boy, suspected of mistreating his master’smount, she brought to confession and a quixotic zeal to makeamends.

But chiefly she waited. Impatient of interruption fromthose who wished to be her friends, of the warm, indirectlighting shafted over her by the Cabot millions, of the comfortof reality, she merely endured the intermission. Herimagination strained toward what would be revealed whenthe curtain rose again.

The Airedale terrier, that now was not to know the joys ofowning his own “boy,” she made her particular charge.Although she had resented him from first sight, she came totake a vicarious pride in his up-bringing and points. ThroughJack’s eyes she watched his development out of puppyhoodinto promising young dogship; daily brushed the harsh tancoat over which the outlines of a black saddle already wereforming; noted with interest that, although scarcely twomonths old, his eyes were turning black; attended his dietherself, lest his canine voracity weaken the bones of hisfront legs, now straight as two gun-barrels. In time she feltfor him a comradeship even greater than Jack’s would havebeen. Was he not in the same, culpable position which hadsaddened her youth? Had not another died for him?

She did not realize how much his demonstrative preferencefor her company had gained upon her until one night whenawakened from her early sleep by the ache of loneliness. Shedecided to join him in Jack’s living room where he wasallowed to dream his puppy dreams curled up on the foot-stoolthat stood as of yore before the lame little autocrat’sarm-chair. Slipping a warm robe over her nightgown andloose long hair, she tip-toed in mules along the balcony andinto the suite of so many memories. Scarcely had she closedthe door when the puppy rose to receive her. Although hestood a picture of preparedness in the center of the room,instinctively posing after the traditions of his A. K. C.ancestry when on hunt or show-bench, the waggle of hisshort, flagstaff tail and certain quivers of his stiff chinwhiskers assured her that he was delighted she had come.

And Dolores returned his greeting with more than usualcordiality. She rubbed the level of his back with her footand stooped to scratch the section of forehead between thesmall, V-shaped ears when he kissed effusively her bareankles.

She straightened; for a moment stood listening. The roomwas very quiet—so much quieter than usual. She glancedat the grandfather’s clock which had ticked through so manygenerations of Cabots. The living John had tinkered it tooutlast the life of his heir and it had made good his boast.Reproachfully Dolores eyed the “calm” face which Jack hadapproved. Indeed, a clock needed to be “calm-faced,” whenits office was ticking lives away.

The hour hand was close to eleven. But then, the hourdidn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that Jack was gone.With the thought, she turned toward the closed bedroomdoor. Impossible—almost too impossible for belief it seemedthat he was not sleeping within. Comparing to-night withother nights when she had crept in to assure herself that hissleep was sound, the past seemed real, the now the unreality.Surely he would be hunched up beneath his eider-down andsatin just as usual.

Moved by her longings, the girl continued across theliving-room; opened, then closed behind her the bedroomdoor and stopped beside the bed. Its absolute flatness, theneat roll of the comforter between its foot-posts, the primset of the pillows at its head—all filled her with realizationkeen as actual disappointment. She bunched up the pillows,threw herself upon them and shook out the comforter overher. With a sob, she tried to clasp to her heart the delusionthat a twisted little shape lay within her arms.

Before she fell asleep she realized that the puppy hadfollowed her into the room. He had hidden under the bed,evidently, until eased of fear over his temerity. Her resistanceof the whimpers with which he soon grew emboldenedkept her awake for a time. What was he—stupid, bruteatom—that he presumed to offer comfort for her humanloss? And had not he himself deprived her? Quite roughlyshe pushed away his exaggeratedly shivering body and repulsedhis suggestion that he, too, was lonely. Let himcontinue to hide from her sight—let him die of his loneliness!

And yet—— In those little-girl days of long ago, hadshe died, willing though she might have been to offer thatapology for her existence? What would she have done if thefather whom she had deprived had not been merciful to her?

A damp nose in her down-stretched palm emphasized thequestion. She should remember that the creature wasn’t hersto mistreat. Jack would want his dog given the benefit ofevery doubt. She picked up the recent bundle of caninepathos—now one of exuberant joy—and permitted him towriggle down upon the coverlet.

A sound louder than his dream barks, then a movementmore definite than the twitching of the four feet co-ordinatingwith the speed at which he imagined himself running,awakened her. Against the slivers of light which outlinedthe door-frame, she saw that the puppy was standing atattention—hind legs thrust well back, bristles stiff, noseclose to the sill. She sat up and shook herself wider awake.Someone had entered the sitting-room and made a light.

She would better announce her presence inside than havethe dog bark the announcement for her. With the idea ofreturning to her own chamber, she gathered her dressing-gownclose around her and opened the door.

There she stood absolutely still. Everything seemed tohalt with her feet—the beat of her heart, all capability tomove or speak, even any sense of surprise.

Powerless as she felt looked John Cabot.

He was sitting in Jack’s arm-chair, beside the lamp; waslooking at her. The parts of Jack’s broken, pace-setting toywere spread out on the table. In both hands he clutched thetorn magazine in which the boy had drawn a circle aroundthe dog of his choice. He was pale and gaunt.

From the look of him, he must have imagined her a vision.And she made no move to undeceive him. He was convincedof the reality of the moment by the puppy. Holding asidethe frisking beast, he straightened and forced himself tospeak.

“You mustn’t stay here, Dolores.”

His words, his frown, his harsh tone—all stabbed into thewound of her solitariness as she had not been stabbed whenalone. She could not manage an answer, except to cross tothe hall door. Then, just as her hand turned the knob——

“For God’s sake, don’t leave me—don’t go!” At her distressedhesitation, he added a jumble of words. “There issomething I’ve been wanting to say to you—to offer—aboutyour future. Forgive me if I seem abrupt or rude. I feelthe strain of—of recent events. It might help to talk withsomeone who understands. Won’t you stay—a little while?”

Dolores felt more hurt than when he had spoken first, buthurt for him. Knowing the steel control of the man, shewondered at his mood. She returned into the room andstood before him, one thought clear in her mind. So this,then, was what she had been awaiting all along—this needfor companionship of John Cabot?

Usually so punctilious about the courtesies, he remainedseated, his knuckles whitening in his grip of the crumpledmagazine. That he now avoided looking at her filled herwith the equivocal sensations of hope and fear which hadunsteadied her that night of the dinner. But she tried notto feel for herself. She wanted all she was to feel for him.She saw that he was making an effort to get himself in handand wished that she might help him. Yet she hesitated tospeak lest she sound some discordant note.

“I thought it was only Jack I was lonely for—that sittingin his room, among his things—— But I was deludingmyself. I know that now. The sight of you—— Well, ithas not calmed me.”

All too brief a glance he lifted to her startled eyes.

“If I seem strange or—or incoherent—— Dolores, younever could imagine such loneliness as I’ve been suffering.Every night since I moved to the club, I’ve been obsessedwith the desire to come here. I knew I shouldn’t trust myself.Last night I tramped the street until five in the morningto wear out the wish. But to-night it came back strongerthan before. It has half crazed me—has worn me out. I—Iam run down, I guess. I feel like the last half-second of aneight-day clock.”

At his simile, the girl glanced toward the corner. Thehour hand of the tall old time-piece was exactly where it hadbeen, close to eleven. She realized why the silence hadseemed so intense when she first had entered the room.Shocked, she leaned closer to John Cabot.

“Jack’s clock,” she murmured. “I wound it only yesterday.It has stopped.”

As he, too, turned and looked, his face reflected her superstitioustone. The quiet increased. Everything in theirworld seemed to have stopped.

The young Airedale broke the pause. With a whine andone paw he importuned the master’s lax-hanging hand. Johnpushed him away.

“I owe you worse than nothing, puppy. I meant that Jackshould be considerate of you, but not that he should die foryou.”

The dog appeared to understand; at least, raised his headand howled dismally.

To hush his weird lament, Dolores sank down upon thehassock which never more would rest a pair of shrunkenlegs; dragged the wretched alien out from under the chair;stroked and patted him.

“He didn’t intend that Jack should die for him,” sheinterceded. “He didn’t intend anything—any more than Iintended that my mother should die for me. I try not tohate him. I am sure Jack would know and be distressed ifI did. He’s just a foolish puppy.”

“‘And what is folly, but a riotous expenditure of will?’”muttered John. His hand sought the head of the dog forthe importuned caress, but spasmodically clasped aroundDolores’. He leaned toward her, although with eyes turnedaway, as he continued to quote: “‘There are to will and tohave your will. There are your social ideas, your immoderatedesires, your excesses, your pleasures that end in death,your sorrows that quicken the pace of life. For pain isperhaps but a violent pleasure.’”

Then he looked at her. His eyes, dark and brilliantthrough a surface film, asked her consideration. Never hadshe seen such misery. She had thought it could only be feltin the heart.

“Do you believe that?” he demanded. “Is the pain that iswrecking me only a form of pleasure?”

Dolores doubted her voice, but she forced it. It soundedunsteady as her thoughts. “I wish I knew what to say. I—Icannot endure to see you so unhappy. I wish I knew——”

“There is no heartbreak except deliberate sin. That I keeptelling myself,” he interrupted. “If I am true to Jack’strust, true to myself, true to you——”

His hand slid to her wrist; hesitated there.

“But with the best I can do I am breaking. Everythinghas combined to weaken my resistance. Jack, who was yourprotector, died and immediately after him the canary.To-night the clock that has not missed a minute for threegenerations of us—even the old clock gives up.”

“Do you remember what Jack said,” Dolores reminded,“that nothing is wasted? Maybe——”

“Don’t start me on that train of thought,” he objectedharshly. “It maddens me. If Jack and his restraininginfluence were to die—if we were to meet here to-night—iftime for us was to stop——”

He clutched her other arm and passed both hands to hershoulders. One remained there. The other continuedaround her neck; forced her face to lift to his; clung to herthroat. The pulse of his fingers beat against the pulse justunder her chin.

“Look at me, Dolores. Keep me seeing the surprise inyour eyes. Do you realize that you have only your inexperienceto protect you?”

She was glad to obey. She looked and looked. And asshe looked, she saw her heaven—at last her home. Somethinglifted that for long had lain a dead-weight on herheart, a question that now wafted like a fragrance from herlips.

“You care—for me?”

“Dolores....”

“You have longed for me as I have longed for you?”

“Didn’t you know from the first? I tell you to imploreyou—don’t trust me. I am no longer strong, Dolores.Against my will, against Jack’s faith—— Life, position,integrity—everything is a trifle to me except the need toknow—— Dolores, will you try to understand? Won’tyou forgive and pity me? I am terrified for you. You mustbe stronger than I.”

She did not appear to have heard him.

“You love me, then. You love me.”

Over and over again the answer to her question gave sweetform to her lips. Her head fell back. Her eyes pursued his.

The young Airedale, convinced at last that he was unwelcome,emerged from under the chair, gave them a reproachfullook, then trotted out of the room. His exit seemed toimpress John anew with their aloneness. He drew up andaway from her.

“Remember,” he warned, “that hopelessness is a dangerousstate. So long as I had hope I was strong. Now that I amhopeless—hopeless——”

It was then that he told her of his interview with Catherine.Knowing his wife as most did not, he could nothope to change her private and particular reasons for refusingto free him. As Clarke Shayle had said, Catherine couldnot be “reached.” He had promised Jack to help Dolorestoward a safe future. He was glad of to-night’s opportunityto learn what she wished that future to be.

But the girl no longer was restrained by his restraint. Nowthat she understood, she had no thought of herself except asit might concern him. And why consider the future in preferenceto the here and now? Why lower her eyes from thatfirst sight of home and heaven?

The admiration and pity which she felt in her mind forhim blended into a yearning desire voluntarily to satisfy thedemands spoken only in the glaze of his eyes, in the pallor ofhis face, in the stiff set of his lips.

“Maybe you would be comforted,” she ventured, “to knowhow much I——”

Although he shrank farther back, his fingers, still pressedagainst her throat, conducted the tremor that passed throughhim.

“I’d give my soul to hear you say it. Surely you knowthat? And yet I must not hear—I dare not hear. Don’ttrust me. Don’t try me.”

“Does love try love?” Her eyes widened incredulously.“Isn’t love a question, incomplete unless answered? You saythat you care as I do—that you have cared all along. Youwould not tell me if it were not true. You ask me by lovingme. Let me answer. You want to hear me! Don’t you—don’tyou, John?”

She shook back the loosened hair from her face that hemight see while he heard the truth. She had thought himpale; now all color left the lips pressed against his teeth.His hands tightened on her, but to hold her away. Beforeto-night she would have been silenced by this continence.But now that she knew—— Everything was different now.

“Don’t repulse me as you did the dog, John. I deserveyour pity more than he. Don’t remind me that since birthmy presence has brought death.”

“Death, Dolores? I never guessed what life could beuntil I saw you.”

“Why, then, make me feel that you regard me as a curse?”

“Dear, I am blessed to have known you.”

Her appeal for herself gentled him as those for him couldnot do. In his palms he cupped the oval of her cheeks; forlong looked into her eyes. Stiffly, as if compelled againsttheir inclination by his will, his lips moved.

“So fragrant and pure is the soul of you, but fragile asthe rose that Jack destroyed. You must not be wasted onme.

“But he said, John, that nothing is ever really wasted, noteven the tears of dew on a rose. They have only their day—roses.And hearts have only their day. Why not enjoy themthe more for their little life? Tell me again and read youranswer in my happiness. Is it true—true that you love me?”

His eyes closed that he might not read; then opened atonce lest he fail.

“I love you with a crave that terrifies me—only less, Ihope, than my honor—with a will to protect you from whatyou do not understand—from myself and yourself——”

“Protect love against itself?” Her incredulity silencedhim. “If my heart is a rose that you wish to pluck, John,take it, crush it, sift its petals through your fingers. If itbrings you a moment’s pleasure, it will not have been wasted.”

His hands recoiled from her face as if from a danger.

But Dolores lifted her arms and laid them around hisneck. She felt no false shame before him. She knew now.

“Take me, John, and crush me. Waste me, since you calllove a waste. I am satisfied to be the rose of your day—togive off my fragrance for you.”

He could not have shaken her off had he tried, so overwhelmingwas her wish to give him that for which he wouldnot ask. He sat perfectly still, looking down into her eyes,listening to what she said. His breath came harder when shelifted to her knees on the hassock and leaned against him.

“Jack told you to see that I was happy. I cannot be sowhile you are unhappy, John. Think of me and take me inyour arms. Let me feel that I belong to you—that at last Ibelong.”

“That first day I saw you, Dolores——” His white lipsagain moved in words. “Two visible creatures seemed tobe born of our meeting. The best of me went out to you—mylove. The best of you appealed to me—your innocence.Help me to see them plainly as on that day. Remind me ofyour inexperience. Don’t urge yourself upon me. For thesake of your innocence and my love, loose me and leave me.”

But confusing sensations dulled the girl to his prayer—sensationsof vehement rebellion, of incompleteness withinsweet proximity of all, of a vast sadness and vaster joy. Sheshook with the shudder that shook him. Her hands drew hishead to a resting place where the robe had fallen from herbreast. She felt him relax in her arms; realized that hislips had touched, then drawn away from hers, as if offendedby the contact.

“God help me.... More than my honor.”

She scarcely heard his words, so low were they rasped.The next moment he spoke plainly, although in a hoarse,hurried voice.

“Who do you suppose made the law that I am trying toobey? To be born with passions like mine, to hold them inleash all my life because of the righteous hope my mothertaught me of this moment and you, then to try to convincemyself that it is all a lie for which I have lived—that love isless than law—— If God Almighty made it——”

“No. Man must have made that law,” the girl interrupted.“Don’t you feel, John, that love is right? I don’tknow God, but I know you. Can’t you believe that way inme?”

“Dolores!” With worshipful reproach, he gave her thevow she asked. “With my mind, my heart, my body I believein you. I always shall believe.”

Wonderingly he looked at her lips; saw on them for thefirst time a smile. Timidly yet bravely, it rewarded andfurther tempted him.

“Then kiss me. Then love me,” she panted. “Oh, I wantso to kiss you—to love you. I didn’t know how muchuntil——”

A strand of her hair fell across the smiling lips—acrosstemptation. Although so tenuous and soft, it was a barrierbetween him and that from which he had plead to be saved.His hand shook from his hurry to brush it aside. The moregreedily for its interference, his lips lowered to those lipsthat were tempting him; sank to them; found the completeanswer they had sought in vain to speak.

Dolores’ body was lifted into an embrace which wouldhave been cruel, except for her desperate response. Her longhair drifted about them, a curtain from the light. Increasinglyshe felt that new sense of incompleteness, that weightof sadness and lightness of joy. Shaking from the violencearoused by her yearnings, she yet clung as if to gentleness.

“How strange I feel,” she breathed.

“You are my mate, Dolores.”

Again: “I did not know—did not understand that lovewas like this.”

And again he reassured her: “You are my mate.”

“But is this what they felt for me, those other men? Ihated them for it. I blamed them.”

“No.” He deprived her lips of his that his eyes mightblaze the indignant denial into her eyes. “Their passion waslust. Yours is the fragrance of the rose—the pollen of yourlove. Do not fear that I could misunderstand.”

“Fear? If God made the rose, why fear?” she half-sobbed.“If it is not lust for you to love me, give me backyour lips. Oh, kiss me, John. Oh, love me. I belong.”

CHAPTER XVII

“I cannot tell more to-night. I cannot make it snappy. Icannot go on.”

The tortured protest of the spirit-girl Dolores was as thebreath of a blower to her demon audience. It fanned thetinder of their evil imaginations and inflamed their desiresfor intimate details.

A clamor of profanity arose as the marble-pale, but fervidface which had wrought such grief among men lowered tothe shield of hands that looked too weak to have torn to bitsa strong man’s honor. The shudder of crucified modestycaused the jewel-like lights that adorned her hair, her throat,her breast to wink, as from carnal thoughts “indestructible”as their source of life.

For several nights the first Royal Entertainer had held herplace at the monk-table’s head by virtue of a two-fold charm;had dazzled their eyes with her beauty and the illusion of hergorgeous apparel, while enslaving their attention with thefinished style of her tale. Now that she had reached whatmight be considered a low spot of intensity, however, hersense of the artistic had failed her and them. She had fallenfrom the superiority of her infernal state; and backslid, asit were, into the slough of an almost human self-consciousness.When their most venomous hisses did not lift the sin-darkhead from the board, they turned as one to him whohad arranged the little inside entertainment. Interest ofanother kind stirred in them at the look of him.

Exasperation had lifted the King from his chair. Hestood at the table’s foot, glaring down at the proselyte whohad dared to arouse, then deny his emotions. A glow surroundedhim, outlining his superb proportions against theblack velvet hangings. From his eyes—nearer green thangray at the moment—poured a baleful light. His featuresworked from mental lasciviousness.

“I told you to dispense with the asterisks,” he remindedher. “How dare you tease me with this obsolete trick?”

Dolores lifted her face. In the radium glow of his viciousexpectations it gleamed with unthinkable chastity.

“I have not meant to tease or trick you,” she said. “Ihave done my best to entertain—have plotted and plannedmy story like the writer of a book—have rehearsed my lineseach day like an actress before her opening night. Everylittle treasured phrase and word I have given you, just aslearned by heart at the time and re-learned in my afterthoughts.I’ve tried—tried. But I find that I cannot go on.No true woman-soul could. What happened was betweenourselves and——”

“Watch your words! For the infidel you boast yourself,you’re quite too free with the name of a certain Potentate.Besides, aren’t you flattering the Great-I-Am? I miss myguess if what happened wasn’t between yourselves and me.”

Dolores’ timidity left her at the suggestion. “I am sureYour Lowness had nothing to do with—with that night.Otherwise it would not seem so wrong to tell it here—suchan injustice to John. The fault was not his. It was mine—allmine. I did what he implored me not to do. I urgedmyself upon him beyond his strength. The only excuse forme is that, with all I had known of mortal man, I really didnot understand. And he—he had felt so safe in his sorrow.”

Half-rising, she clutched the table for support and gazedalong the double file of spectral faces. The leer on the lipsof him nicknamed Old Original aroused her to furtherdefense.

“Perhaps our mateship was not meant to be gainsaid.Perhaps the races of the mortal world would be worthiertheir fair lands if right were not made wrong by mortal laws—ifonly the Maker whom John questioned need be obeyed.Perhaps He meant that the crave to be satisfied of all truelove should compensate for His inexorable law that manmust die.”

At the shriek of derision that greeted her thought, shelifted her head and eyes in a transport of humble defiance.

“Whatever the perhaps and perhaps, I do not regret. Theproof of what I felt for John I never shall regret. If Idid wrong it was in caring for him and that I could not help.Love’s first and best impulse is to bestow. I knew that Ibelonged to him and I wanted him to know. I am glad—gladthat I told him. The way I gave the knowledge wascalled a crime—the only crime on earth not judged by motiveand circ*mstance. Surely on that Day when justice becomesabsolute, I shall not be blamed. What is a whisperedconfession, a lingering kiss, an abandoned embrace, to bequibbled over by Him said to have made us and all that weare from the impulse of love divine? Did not He Himselfdecree that love must be served?”

“She-fiend, you overstep yourself!”

The lash of His Majesty’s voice convinced the girl-soul.Whipped by it back into her chair, she awaited the chastisem*ntwhich probably would follow her regardlessness ofrules. Thoughts of the Wantons’ Well and the Ward forBastard Babes subdued her small access of courage in thedread which had come with her from Earth to Shadow Land.She closed her eyes; ceased to breathe; expected. The pauseseemed long; was long.

When finally the Rex of Reversals spoke, his humoroustone and diction made her realize that until then she hadexpected clemency.

“Hard to beat, this faith of fools! At least, the GreatJudge of whom you hope a reprieve from the fiat of yourworld hasn’t any corner on tolerance. Although love is apuny motive, I excuse a lot of it for sake of the passion itbegets. Young woman, your story interests me. Since solarge an audience has disconcerted you, suppose you finish*t to sympathetic me alone. It is hate divine that must beserved and you who must serve it.”

Dolores’ moan went unheard in the instant protest of thedemon cabinet. But their controller did not trouble to repeathis order. Not so much as a gesture or nod of dismissaldid he vouchsafe as they, not daring to vent their spleen overbeing excluded from this culminating séance, filed out oneby one.

Although several times before Dolores had been alonewith His Highness, she never had feared as now the EvilMind. Her face returned to her palms. In darting speculationover what he next might say or do, she awaited hisdispleasure. Unendurably the silence lasted. She at lastglanced up from morbid curiosity.

He was not looking at her. The green glow, so weirdfrom his gray eyes, shafted well to one side and past her.She noticed that he was at once unusually attractive becauseunusually repulsive to-night. The concentration into whichhe had sunk drew out of her like a magnet a certain sympathyfor the very evil he would do her. She shuddered inghoulish anticipation.

More slowly lagged the seconds. More unnatural itseemed that still he did not look at her. Had there remainedin his mind a shadow of Old Sam’s suggestion thathe had a weakness for her? Doubt of what might lurk inhis averted eyes obsessed her.

“Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you look at me?” sheurged aloud. “Please look at me.”

She would better have remained in doubt. To see whatwas in his eyes, to try to grasp the odious meaning of theglance now fixed upon her——

As she swayed backward in her chair, he proceeded toenlighten her.

“I get it.”

“It, Your Majesty?”

“It—you—the secret power that has made you the desireof men and devils. Who would have thought to look at youthat it was only a case of lust beget lust?”

“Oh, don’t say that!”

He leered. “Why a pretense of apology between two badones like us? Instead of protesting virtues of which youought to be ashamed, realize that your guilt as charged makesyour desirability one-hundred-per-cent-plus down here, asit did on Earth.”

Evidently not interested in her agreement, he turned awayand began to pace the floor.

“This has been a red-letter night to me. Do you know,you’re not telling a good story—not good at all. It haselements that quite hold me. We’ve had the vamp in books,over the footlights and on the screen. I thought I knew thetypes and methods forward and backward—especially back.But your delineation of a young girl who is without designbecause herself unconscious of the prurience in her, whoappeals to the best in men by her guilelessness and the worstby her sleeping desire, who, although intending well, spreadsdisaster in her wake—— No matter what its claims to truth,sweet Grief, it makes a damned bad story.”

He stopped directly before her in time to hear a murmuredappeal to her guardian companions.

“Innocentia, must I believe these dreadful things aboutmyself? If they are not true, help me to prove them false,dear, dear Amor.”

Approvingly the Satanic chuckle sounded. “Consistentto fanaticism in your part! As you like. But let’s get tothe end. Forget the asterisks. Pull up the curtain. Giveus the expurgated lines.”

“If I am fanatic in my desire to be decent, you are anatheist. I tell you I cannot—will not go on!” From strengthof her abhorrence the spirit-girl started up and faced him.“Punish me as you like. Anything is better than to stripmy soul to your unholy gaze.”

“Anything?” He seized her arm with the sear of a red-hotiron. “I’ll give you one second to fête your fancy uponwhat your punishment might be. You’ll pay in full, youhelliot, if you cheat me of an experiment that I plan tomake. You’ve given me an idea more seducing than anyof my own inception. If it works out, it will net you morethan it will me. Come a day, you being what you are andI what I am——”

“I wish to hear no new ideas for me. I cannot enduremore to-night.”

At her sustained effort to combat his will he leaned soclose over her that her face felt scorched from his mentalinsistence, more offensive than the physical insistence of anyman of Earth. She struggled toward her chair; there fellface forward on the board. He—without looking, she saw—sweptafter her like some ravening bird of prey. Strong,long talons clutched her. Almost had they shaken her accessof strength from her when——

“Better let up on her, Your Demnition Pow-Wows.”

A carping voice offered the advice. A tall, strong-lookingghoul swaggered into the light from the comparative darknessoutside the door.

“Sin, you infernal eaves-dropper, how dare you——”

“Leaves-dropper, rather—table-leaves-dropper.” With incrediblebravado Old Original winked into the Balial glare.“May I assume the compliment to my invisibility that youfailed to notice me humbly awaiting Your Damnity’s conveniencewithout?”

“Impudently awaiting My Damnity’s inconvenience, youmean. You may not. That I didn’t notice you was due tothe super-visibility of our royal raconteuse.”

“Who will recount no more if you continue to torture her.Having recommended her to your inclemency in the firstplace, I feel more than less responsible. The wages of sinare best paid by death—you’ll concede that to me, Excellency?Yet you do not, I am sure, wish her to die.”

“Low-brow, she cannot die.”

The old hoax returned a confident leer. “That I growmore high-brow with every age let me demonstrate througha reminder of how the greatest roughness is the gentlest.What diverts you in her—her very virile hope—may diebefore that Day. Am I right or wrong in saying that youowe me, if not her, some consideration?”

“Wrong you are. You did throw me the acorn from whicha giant oak may grow.”

“And hasn’t she sirened you along bad and improper?Hasn’t she been square with you?”

“Yes, she’s been square. There wasn’t a right angle toall the past Delilahs ever damned by man or me.”

Sin, with a wary eye fixed upon the Master of Malice,made for that end of the monk-board nearer the exit. Thewhile he further ventured: “It isn’t necessarily loweringto Your Highness to say that you have more to learn thanI anent the siren act. You can’t bully a dame into doting onyou. The present-day caveman style is 40 H. P.—afteryou’ve got her. Before, a wise one coaxes her. And it isn’tenough to load her down with that stage jewelry of whichyou’re so prodigal, when you yourself don’t look to be, anymore than you act to be, of her day and degeneration. Whynot tog yourself up more in the likeness of this millionairelove-hound of hers? Summertime’s coming apace or I’mno weather prophet, so why not moth-ball the well-knownVandyke and those robes of the vintage of Sol-in-all-his-glorydays?”

A snarl of stabbed vanity greeted the daring suggestion.Its cogency was demonstrated, however, when, in a lungeafter the purveyor of unsolicited counsel, the King trippedover his train.

From the hall the minister primed his advices.

“As for your technique, soft-pedal yourself. Don’t keepblaring like a brass band at a lady who has fainted with fearof your noise.”

The slam of the door was the old impertinent’s period.

Once more tormentor and tormented were alone. Slowlythe Past-Master of Policy righted himself and his intent. Returningto the prostrate girl-shade, he thinkingly regardedher. Her side face lay lax upon the board, exquisite as anirradiated cameo in its twisted setting of hair. Closed werethose eyes of the purples of the bourgainvillae. Not abreath lifted the luring lines of the back revealed by herdécolleté. Could her spirit really have swooned beyond hisreach?

He shrugged away the thought. Too often and too vehementlyhad he himself longed for surcease from consciousnessin the last ten thousand years or so. Too well he knewthat she still could hear him. Through time which had no beginningand could not end, she as well as he must continueto think—and think—and think.

Thinking of her now as he looked, he felt more than beforeattracted toward that new idea regarding her whichhad been inspired by the latest chapter of her earth history.The oldest Original was right. His ways with women werearchaic as his clothes in the sight of this most modern ofMagdalenes. No repression of his ruthlessness or change inhis “style” would be too great a price to pay for success inthat experiment.

When he spoke it was in mild tones.

“Forgive my stupidity. ‘It ain’t inherited—it’s a gift.’ Allright, fairest fiend. We’ll call it a séance to-night. Orbetter, suppose I give you a lift over the scene which hasoverwhelmed you with self-consciousness. At that, it mayaffect me worse to tell it myself. They say the narratorgets more out of his story than his hearers. He first mustfeel to arouse feeling. A good bad idea. So then, I’ll tellyou.”

The tips of his fingers crackled as he touched them to hislips, then waved them toward the unresponsive audience.

“Behind the Asterisks!” he announced his subject. “TheGreat-I-Am invented the sex-impulse in order to give lifeto love. Necessarily He had to make it a strong emotion inorder to people His earth.

“I invented loveless lust to people Hell. None born ofthe flesh dares deny his vulnerability. None but feels itsbasic attraction, even at times when most repulsed. Not to itscruder phases do I invite your attention—to the reproductiveinstinct of the mortal male. That is ever awake, unashamed,engaging chiefly through its strength.

“But sleeping passion! Too few are given the dear delightof arousing it. To breathe open the eyes searching throughtheir mist of dreams—to kiss into consciousness the sweet-thicklips—to feel one’s sluggish pulse speeding to match thebeat of youth’s startled heart——

“Ah, what man-brute of Earth, what god of Heaven orfiend of Hell would not gladly give the wealth of threeworlds to incite the divine awakening!

“Moved beyond modesty, the arms uplift and cling—weak-strongarms, made supple to curve around the bodiesof babes. The lips soon learn why they are so thick andhoney-sweet, soon learn to give and to ask back in doubledole.

“The inarticulate murmur of yearnings that crave utterance,but are ashamed of words.... The sobs of utterinnocence.... The tender form that seems to shrink evenas it seeks.... At last the naked desire.... Its brief,breathless struggle to control.... The delirium of yieldingto its will....

“The hoping fear....

“The fearing hope....”

CHAPTER XVIII

The works of the old Cabot clock were worn out. Duringthe days and nights that followed its last tick Doloresoften glanced up into its non-committal face, reproachfulthat it would no longer mark off the minutes. Time dragged,weighted by her doubt over the state of mind of John.

Then, one night after twelve, when all the household wasasleep, he came back to her. He folded her against his heart.He took her lips. He claimed her with full acknowledgmentof his dependency.

“God forgive me,” he said. “It is too much for me.”

There was no need for him to explain. His white face,the pound of his heart against hers, his inconsistent pleasfor pardon that he might be free to sin again, all helpedher to understand. He was possessed by the passion ofan all-demanding love. He had fought a fight; had foughtand had failed.

And Dolores could not lament his defeat. Only one thingmattered, that John’s love answered hers. She had calledand he had heard. Against his will he had come. Theiracknowledgment, then, had not been a regrettable impulse;had been, rather, what was to be. They loved, and Heavenwas in their hearts. They loved.

After the days of doubt, Dolores rested in blessed conviction.Never before had she been given a chance at happiness.Here was her chance. Suggestions of smiles formedabout her lips. A new light, like the gleam from deep-cutamethysts, shone from her eyes. A man like John Cabotdid not love lightly. And John Cabot loved her.

Next morning she awoke with the wish that her fathermight know how well all was with her. Although a drizzlingrain began to fall, she decided against ordering Jack’s car.She preferred to go to Trevor Trent simply, as they hadlived, changed only by the glory from within. She felt closeto him while donning, for the first time in weeks, the oldblue serge suit whose purchase price he had spared fromthe poppy paste. The long ride up-town in the Subway, themudded walk and the plain slab that marked the spot whereshe had left him to lie beneath down-drifting leaves, broughther nearer.

Where is there comfort like confiding a rapturous secretto one’s own? How long the orphaned girl sat beside thegrave, oblivious of the rain because her consciousness hadgone to find and gladden that of the parent whose last“please God” had been that she find a good love—howdrenched was the blue suit—how chilled her feet—she subtractednone of her attention from him to realize. The adventurebrought her content.

Sometime during the afternoon she returned to the greathouse on the upper Avenue. So dulled she felt to outerperceptions that surprise held her only a moment to meetthe Frenchwoman, Annette, in the elevator. She somehowforgot to listen to the maid’s explanation of why she hadnot remained with madame. Later she was forced to hearMorrison’s insistence that she needed a doctor, but madelight of the good woman’s anxiety. What mattered a slightfever or swollen tonsils or a disinclination toward food toone blessed as was she?

As developed, however, these symptoms mattered muchin the heightening of her happiness. The housekeeper’s responsibility,transferred to Bradish, resulted in a telephonedmessage to Mr. Cabot’s club. Soon after the wire, he came,terrified out of all proportion to her trifling symptoms. Tosee that all his instructions were carried out, he stayed.

Dolores’ protestations soon ceased, since to relieve hisanxiety might take him away again. It was too preciousto forego, this experience of being ministered to by him.Their first meal alone together, which he ordered served inJack’s living room much as the youngster himself mighthave done, was an occasion almost too significant for calm.To please him, she tried to sip her broth and eat her toast,but with the sacred joy of a convert at some sacrament.

After he had shut out the servants and advised Morrisonthat he would sit awhile with Miss Trent, he wrapped herfirst in a robe, then in his arms and sat rocking her with apossessive tenderness which made her realize how much shehad missed from her babyhood. Her ecstasy of contentmust have dulled her ears. She heard no sound, merelyassumed one, when he placed her in Jack’s reading chair,took a few steps toward the hall door and stood intentlylistening. Still she had heard nothing when he strode tothe door and flung it wide.

Upon the threshold, in a panic of indecision between flightand remaining, stood Annette. Her eyes, nondescript exceptfor their shrewdness, followed the thinking glance of theman who had surprised her from the half-light of the corridorto the strong one of the reading-lamp within, then downto the key-hole, minus its key. Evidently, she decided onbravado. A sneer drew down the corners of her mouth.She straightened to face the master.

“You back?” he asked.

“Madame finds herself in need of certain dinner gowns.She returned me to select and pack them.”

“She sent you back from Florida to select and pack certaindinner gowns? Just what does madame pay you for thejob?”

“Does not Mr. Cabot know the amount of my salary, nonetoo large for one who has served——”

“I mean how much for this key-hole job?”

At his contemptuous interruption, the woman caught herbreath.

“Five-hundred-dollar, m’sieu.”

“A five-hundred-dollar bonus? Madame is good to you.However, I am in a position to be better. I’ll advance thatbonus to-night, if you’ll leave her employ.”

Her avaricious watch of his face eased in a disappointedlaugh. “Does m’sieu think I would turn the traitor toa mistress who has ever been most generous and whotrusts——”

“I do.”

“And for a wretched five hundred, already earned?”

“I do not—not for five hundred.” He contributed a shortlaugh. “But for that in cash, plus a check for one thousand,good in six months if you neglect to report to this trustingmistress who has been so generous with you.”

“But how can M’sieu Cabot think so low of me that for apaltry thousand-dollar——”

“The five hundred you get now,” he detailed. “The checkfor a thousand will be dated so that you can cash it in June,unless traitoring has become a habit with you. If it does,I shall stop payment at the bank. You will leave this houseand Mrs. Cabot’s employ at once. Satisfactory?”

The click of the last-word question must have satisfied themaid that she could profit no further.

“Quite,” she replied, succinctly as he.

Without comment on the fact that he had read her aright,John Cabot counted five century notes from his wallet anddrew the promised check, calling her attention to the date,six months from that day.

When she had gone he said to Dolores:

“I want my freedom, but not at your expense.”

“You really think,” the girl faltered, “that that is whyAnnette is here?”

He nodded. “And why you are here and why I should notbe. I have been inexcusable. I am the traitor—the wasterof what I valued most.”

“Don’t keep saying that,” she protested. “Nothing can bewasted when we love. Jack lived and died that we mightknow.”

Through the gloom of self-reproach which was settlingover him—settling between them—he saw her outstretchedhands; caught them; was reminded of her feverish state.

“Dear, it will come right,” he made effort to assure herand, with her, himself. “We mustn’t allow anything to bewasted, not a moment of our time together, not a regret forthe innocence which I should have died rather than——”

Her smile stopped him—the shy, tremulous, revealingsmile so lately learned. Had a dew-wet violet along a woodlandpath looked up at him, he could not have trod upon it.He must not tread upon that smile.

He returned to his delightful care of her. His first andmost important obligation was to see that she did not becomeill, he told her. She must rest now; must sleep off her temperature.He rang for Mrs. Morrison; agreed that theircharge might be put to bed in Jack’s four-poster; himselfsuggested that the Airedale be allowed upstairs to snuggle ather feet. And when the housekeeper had finished hermotherly offices, he made her no explanation of why he stillsat reading in the outer room.

Not since the slight ailments to which all children are heirhad Dolores been ill. Shivering into the eider-down of thehistoric bed, she felt vaguely wretched, uncertain, lost.From the same impulse which had asked the reward of agood-night kiss from Morrison for her tractability, she nowasked John:

“You won’t go away?”

“Leave the corridor door ajar, Morrison.” As if fromafar she heard his instructions. “Come up again when it istime for her medicine. And, Morrison, I have dischargedMrs. Cabot’s maid. She is to leave as soon as she can packher things.”

Dolores grew warmer, then uncomfortably warm. Shemust soon have fallen into a doze. When she opened hereyes, she saw that the night lamp had been clicked off andthe light from the living-room shaded from her face by ascreen. The four, tall, pineapple sentinels guarded her—theyand someone else.

John sat beside the bed, the puppy drowsing in his arms.She was glad that he had become reconciled to the poor littlebeast; that the guiltless cause of Jack’s death was not to paythe price which she had paid in early life for an equallyunintentional fault.

But was John reconciled?

The look on his face brought her to acute consciousness.It was a dreadful look.

“Try not to begrudge the price,” she murmured. “Forthe least thing in life you have to pay, you know. To me,love is inestimable.”

At sound of her voice the young dog lifted one of hisscraggly eyelids, and, without otherwise moving, thumpedhis stub of a tail. John’s expression changed. He leanedtoward her.

“I shouldn’t regret any price that I myself could pay. ButI am not satisfied to let you, who can’t afford it, pay for me.And I won’t.”

She did not understand just what he meant. “You talkas though you were guilty of——”

He caught her hand and pressed his cheek against it.

“Guilty as—Heaven!” he whispered into its palm beforereplacing it beneath the coverlet. At her disturbed look headded: “I am tired with anxiety for you. Won’t you sleepto rest me? Don’t be afraid that I am going to leave you.I can stay on this watch of love forever, if only you willsleep.”

“John—John?” Vaguely she questioned him.

“You are my mate,” he answered. “Rufus called you agray dove, but to me you are pure white. Fold your wingsand sleep.”

“And are you happy, John?”

“Happy as——”

Her eyelids closed at the touch of his lips. Happy aswho? She wondered. Happy as Cain—that was the meaningof the dreadful look she had surprised. But she hadbanished that look. Since she must sleep that his mind mightrest—— How wonderful was this state called happiness.How precious was each small opportunity to prove how verymuch——

“Fold your wings, my white dove,” he murmured againand again. “Sleep, my mate. I love you. Sleep.”

A hysterical yelp awakened her. Evidently the Airedale,too, had been startled from sound slumber. How long hadshe been asleep—for how many minutes or hours had JohnCabot sat there motionless, his eyes on her face?

She raised on one elbow and looked into the outer room.The little undergraduate from the A. K. C., more fromhereditary instinct than any wisdom of his own months, hadbolted his bed of honor. One backward glare he spared tolearn whether he was to be justified in raising the alarm;then, bristling from stiff chin whiskers to flag-staff tail,rushed into the corridor. His master followed.

Dolores tried hard to understand. Her head felt strangeand understanding hurt it. Many sentences of the colloquyoutside were not clear at the time, but came back to herafterward. Besides the voice of John Cabot, she recognizedthe distressed mezzo of Morrison, the startled quaver of oldBradish and an unrecognized duet in bass.

“We are all of that, Mr. Cabot—from the Domestic Detectives,Incorporated,” sounded the first strange voice, evidentlyin answer to some question or comment from John.

“And just in time, at that”—the second.

“Has Annette gone yet, Morrison?”

Bradish answered John’s question. “I let her out not tenminutes ago, sir.”

“Did you see her speak to these men?”

“She did not pass near enough to speak to them, sir. ButI think she signaled them with a gesture. I cannot be sure.”

One of the strangers interrupted. “You can’t deny thatMiss Trent is inside.”

“I deny nothing, but I do order you out of my house,”John returned.

“Don’t you owe it to yourself to explain, Mr. Cabot?”asked Morrison. “I’ve worked in this family all my life andam considered a proper woman. The young lady you askabout is seriously ill. Mr. Cabot is here because my father,the butler, telephoned for him.”

“Ill, is she?”—the first strange voice. “Well, we’respecialists sent to investigate her symptoms. Here, matey,help me ease this gent away from the door. No need forstrenuous argument when we’re two to his one.”

“Look out—a gun!”—the second.

“And a gun,” John added quietly, “trained to put burglarsout of my house.”

“We’re not burglars, Cabot. We’re authorized to enterby the lady of your house.”

“By Mrs. Cabot? Her authorization can’t help you—fromthe distance of Palm Beach.”

Together the two laughed. One explained their amusem*nt.

“Wifie isn’t in Palm Beach, old chap. She’s waiting downat the Plaza to give us any further authority we need overthe telephone.”

“She—didn’t—go?”

A moment of silence followed John’s slow question; then,in staccato——

“Well, get your further authority over an outside ’phone.Mine are busy. Quick, now—my fingers are nervous. I’dbe well within my rights if I——”

A grumbled sentence which Dolores could not hear endedin steps descending the stairs. The colloquy seemed to beended. She felt relieved; dozed off.

The morning was half over before John enquired abouther condition over Jack’s telephone. He felt that he musttell her certain facts, not so much to worry her as to spareher worry over matters which undoubtedly soon would beforced upon her attention. He hoped that listening wouldnot tax her, since the physician’s morning report had beenmost encouraging. A little patience, a few days withindoors, and she would be herself again. His relief she couldbetter imagine than he describe.

If his friend Rufus Holt called to see her, she was to talkto him as she felt inclined and might trust his advices.Toward any other inquiries regarding her personal affairsshe should not commit herself. For some time he wouldnot be able to see her and considered it best that he shouldget his news of her through Morrison. She must take allpossible care of herself and believe that nothing—nothinghad been wasted.

Scarcely had Dolores hung up the receiver, scarcely hadgiven her mind to the realization that John Cabot was tryingto protect her from whatever it was that threatened, whenthe gallery door opened and Clarke Shayle strode into theroom.

He looked flushed, hurried, perturbed. He stopped beforeJack’s reading chair, in which she sat, and fixed his odd-fleckedgaze upon her, his lips twitching. Sinking on thehassock, he laid his face in the robe that wrapped her kneesand drew a rasping, relieved sigh.

“I was a fool to credit a word of it,” he exclaimedbrokenly. “You really are sick. You really are—are everythingI believed. I don’t care what she says or what anybodysays. I wouldn’t care even if they could prove it.What a man thinks himself is the only thing that matters.And I’ve got a sort of super-think.” His attempt to banishemotion from his face with a grin was more ghastly thangay. “You see, it ain’t inherited. It’s a gift.”

Even in this crisis, he could not express himself withoutthe use of his banal phrases. Dolores felt sorry for him.She stretched out her hand from an impulse to smooth backhis stiff, auburn cowlick; then, remembering, drew it back.

“What ‘she’ and what ‘anybody’ says?” she asked.

“She sent for me this morning and told me all about lastnight. I believe she had the whole thing planned from firstsight of you. She’s the only wholly bad woman I’ve everknown—Catherine.” He shaded his eyes as if confused byher shocked glance, then continued: “She loves herself andhates everyone who does not share the feeling, chiefly herhusband. Because he has humiliated her by getting her numberright, she intends to humiliate him before their world.She’s going to marry d’Elie after she gets all she wants outof Cabot and gets it her own way. As for me——”

His face lowered into his freckled, delicate hands. Ashudder moved his thick neck and muscular back.

“God knows, I deserve the part she’s cast me for. But Ipray Him—I pray you to let me off. My self-respect wasonly doped. It came to the day I met you and has made meso unhappy since that I—I hope—— Oh, have a heart, littlechump! Help me to be honest with you—encourage me toexplain.”

“Why? Why not?” She hesitated.

“Why? Because I owe it to you to make you understand.Why not? Because you have made me despise myself andmy life. Here in your presence, at the present moment, I’drather die than go on. And yet, I’ll worse than die if Idon’t go on. Dolores, you have felt something of my power—youknow that I’m mesmeric and hypnotic. You knowthat I know it, but not that I have used it to make me whatI am to-day.” He gave a limping laugh. “Can’t you imaginewhat is my professional stock-in-trade—how I hold Catherineand her sort in scented boudoirs?”

“No—no.” With her low protest, the girl drew back intoher chair; clutched its arms; closed her eyes, as if againstthe perception.

From his abject position at her feet, the young manstraightened and clasped together his hands so viciously thatnails cut into flesh. The white spots pressed by his teethinto his lower lip spread backward until even his ears werepale.

“That’s the worst of it,” he said effortfully. “The bestis that I could have roused you, could rouse you now. ButI won’t. I know the tinder you are made of. That firstday I realized that my self-respect was only auto-hypnotized,not dead. The feeling for you that restrained me has grown—hasgiven me the strength to tell you the truth and askyour help.”

“But if you despise yourself and your life,” Dolores faltered,“why not help yourself?”

“Don’t you know that a bad habit soon masters one? Thedamnable thing has got me, that’s why. It will take somethingstronger than contempt for myself to get me out. Thatsomething is my respect for you. The fact that I didn’t—thatI simply couldn’t——” His fingers forward-stretching,but clutching only air, his face again florid from a returnrush of blood, he urged: “You—I need you. God,I am mad for you. Have been all along. But I want youto keep. I want you enough to change my whole life tohave you. I know I am a crude sort—that I’m not whatthey call to the manner born. But I swear to give you asquare deal. I don’t care what they say about you. I believein you. I want to marry you—to take you off somewhere,so that you and I—— Surely you love me, Dolores?Surely you will——”

The pause was long. During it he seized her limp hand,then dropped it. He staggered to his feet and stood lookingdown at her with the dread gaze of despair. When he spokeagain, his lips worked clumsily.

“So. I’m too late. You’re a snuffed candle to me. Thatmeans—Mr. Other Man. The reward of my sacrifice is—punishment.It’s a beautiful sentiment. I’ll tell the worldthat. She was speaking the truth for once, then, about youand John Cabot? All right. I quit. I’m through.”

Dolores watched him fling into his overcoat, pick up hishat and start for the door. She wished to say something thatwould help him. She owed him consideration as the onlyman who had asked her to marry him. That he had askedher soothed an ache in her mind. She liked him and shefeared for him. But what was there she could say?

Without a word she had refused him. Without a wordshe let him go.

The American vernacular “breezed in” might have beeninspired by the entries of Rufus Holt. Less boisterous thana gale, stronger than a zephyr, something refreshing andpromising came with him, like the tonic in the breath ofSpring.

“Glad you’re enjoying a rest,” he saluted Dolores. “Youneed it, probably, as much as you deserve it. Or perhaps Ishould say you deserve it as much as you need it. It is aworthy thought, for it works both ways.”

The girl, having been foreadvised to trust the attorney,relaxed in his balmy friendliness.

“Doesn’t the truth usually work both ways?”

At her offering he rubbed his bald fore-top. “I don’tknow about that. We lawyers learn not to expect too muchof the truth. It has gone some if it works one way.”

The fact that he would not take off his top-coat gave eachminute of the time that he did stay an added value. Thathe would not smoke somehow increased the fragrance abouthim of a fine cigar. That he gave her choice of chairs forhim the preference lent companionableness to his manner ofpulling up directly before her.

“The future has in it lots and lots of trouble that hasn’tbeen used yet,” he prefaced, suddenly grave, “and don’t thinkthat you, lovely little lady, are going to get all of it. Thereare other non-union workers besides yourself.”

“Others?”

He evaded the question direct.

Trouble was the text of his small address—trouble aheadof a kind she had not known. She must prepare her mindfor it; must gather her resources against an attack. Andanother would be protected in the protectorate of herself,one who deserved justification quite as much as she.

Meeting the silent, fluent appeal of her eyes, he set asidehyperbole; before her placed facts, as if on the salver ofhis outspread hands.

Catherine Cabot was an edition of womankind whichDolores doubtless had found hard to read. Velvet-boundwas she, gilt-edged, artfully illustrated. The most astuteof worldlings might remain unenlightened for many chaptersas to the plot of her. Spite, it would seem, was hermotivation—spite toward a husband who had depreciatedwhat she was by a deliberate and stubborn over-valuation.

Long she had waited and watched to prove the plot ofhim as bad as her own. Quite recently she had refused aseparation because she wished, not only a divorce, but a discreditedhusband and a huge, decreed alimony, rather than acollusive settlement. Her engagement of Dolores, herpseudo-kindnesses, her pretended dependence upon the girlin her recent trip South—a trip that had taken her no fartherthan Philadelphia and been followed by a secret return toa mid-town hotel—were calculated steps toward this end.To-day she had served upon her husband the complaint in asuit for absolute divorce. Dolores Trent, grief now to onewoman as to many men, she had named as co-respondent.

The dread announcement was made.

Forgetting the hurry on account of which he had refusedto smoke, Holt now busied himself producing a cigar, clippingit and lighting it. Through smoke-clouds he lookedacross at the notorious girl whom he had whip-lashed withnews of fresh notoriety. Seeing that her lips moved, heleaned forward to catch her words.

“Maybe she was not so bad as—— The idea was d’Elie’s.I mustn’t forget that. He suggested that the father ofl’enfant terrible might find me congenial—not she. ‘Enough,my clever Henri. I understand.’ I remember distinctlywhat she said.”

In the midst of her shared memories, she became consciousof the quality of the lawyer’s regard. Her eyes liftedto his.

“You believe that I——”

Perhaps the more staunchly for catching the sag in hervoice, he sought to reassure her. “I know that you areguiltless. Do you recall the little toast I gave you one nightat dinner? I didn’t say on that occasion that I’d been doublyfavored by meeting your kind of a woman twice in my lifetime—thewoman who doesn’t need to boast or sparkle orpromise—the woman who needs only to be. The first one,Miss Trent, of whom you reminded me, was my mother.”

Dolores was startled. Always before she had suffered becauseunjustly blamed. Now she was unjustly praised. Shedid not feel honest. But she must be careful, even withthe kindly attorney. She had John, as well as herself, tothink of. The fault was not so much his as hers and hemust not be blamed.

“Then, too——” Holt had cleared the huskiness from histhroat—“I know John Cabot.”

Evidently that, to him, was conclusive.

By and by he added: “Even Mrs. Cabot does not thinkyou guilty, as she charges.”

“How can you know that?” Again Dolores was startled.

“She admitted as much to me not more than an hour ago.”

“You have talked with her to-day and she admitted—— Then,perhaps, she can be reached?”

But the bald head wagged, even as the friendly eyesbeamed upon her. “She cannot be reached as you mean,although I have reached her in a way for which you maydespise me. Mrs. Cabot has retained me as her lawyer inthis case.”

“You—her lawyer?” The words were so hot, they seemedto scorch Dolores’ lips. “I thought you were his friend?”

“I am. But Catherine believes now that I have alwayscared—for her, you know—and that therefore I want herfreedom more than anything else in the world. A vainwoman can easily be persuaded of that.”

Dolores could not understand. “You say you really arehis friend, yet you take Mrs. Cabot’s case against him?What possible motive——”

“Me, too, you do an injustice, Miss Trent.”

“You—too?”

“Even me. I am taking the case to lose it.”

CHAPTER XX

Before the divorce suit of Cabot vs. Cabot came to trialreassurance on several of its vital points reached Doloresthrough the consideration of Rufus Holt. To the greatestpossible extent details were to be denied the scandal-hungrypublic. John Cabot would offer his defense through eminentcounsel, as a case unworthy his personal appearance. Sheherself, the co-respondent so necessary to the severance ofmarital ties if one lives and sues in the Empire commonwealth,was to remain for the present with Mrs. Morrison,reported as too ill to undertake the vindication of her name.Roscoe Strang, the judge who was to pass upon the Cabotdifference, was a friend of Holt’s, indebted to him for manyfavors, political and otherwise. The small attorney had seento that. Soon everything would be settled, as Mrs. Cabot’scase would be advanced on the calendar on her plea that shewished to have the painful affair over as soon as possiblethat she might hasten abroad to undertake certain war-orphancharities to which she had pledged herself in lovingmemory of her little son.

Despite all these assurances, the girl awaited with keenanxiety a call to a special conference with the plaintiff’slawyer for which she had been told to hold herself in readinessimmediately after the public hearing. Summoned onemid-February afternoon by special messenger, she taxiedaccording to instructions to a down-town “square” not farfrom the City Hall Park that housed the courts of allegedjustice.

One glance at Rufus Holt through the folds of the veilshe had been asked to wear convinced her that this, indeed,was his first detour from straight legal paths. Although hesmiled in at her from the opened cab door, much of thecheer and most of the youth was gone from his face. Aftergiving a low-voiced address to the driver, he seated himselfbeside her and forced a return to his wonted sanguineness.

No need for Dolores to ask in words whether the ordealwas over—whether John Cabot had been vindicated of thecharge. The moment their machine was underway, her eyesput the demand.

“Judge Strang reserved decision. But they always dothat, as I explained a short while since to my client,” answeredHolt. “You and I are going now to meet a friendof mine—just that, a friend of mine. In the course of a dayor so, the case will be decided—against me.”

Under all the circ*mstances, his sigh was justifiable.Dolores was beginning to realize that. The change in hisface alone told her the enormity of his sacrifice in layingprofessional honor upon the altar of a man-to-man friendship.As the taxi wound its way up-town, he gave her anidea of the proceedings.

The beautiful Mrs. Cabot, an appealing picture in hersables and crepe, had been, of course, her own chief witness.She had told of her tried determination to believe in herhusband and the girl whom she had sheltered from storm-blastswhich had seemed driving her to an unthinkable fate.She had been slow—too slow to admit that any form soyoung and fair could house such veteran vices.

In broken sentences, as if warding off an emotional breakdown,she had outlined the hold which the governess hadwon upon her own heart through the heart of her only child.Not until after the boy’s death had she brought herself toconsider the suggestions of servants and friends that all wasnot well within her household. When the doctors had prescribeda change of climate for her, she had pretended to goSouth, but with the idea of returning at once in order todetermine the truth for herself. Her maid, a French womanin whom she had felt all confidence, she had sent on anerrand back to the house to learn late developments. WhileAnnette was still within, her detectives had followed herhusband there. This maid evidently had been over-bribed,for, after signaling the detectives that the moment was propitiousto enter, she had disappeared. That fact was strongerthan any report could have been as evidence against Mr.Cabot.

All that she felt she needed to add to the testimony ofthe detectives was the name of the Circe who had destroyedthe good-faith of her home. Would New York be surprisedto hear this new chapter in the unparalleled career of onealready known as “Grief to Men”?

“You let her name me in open court?” Dolores coveredher veiled face with her hands.

“What did it matter when you had been named in thelegal papers?” the attorney reminded her. “I was able,however, to check her further attempts to pay her respectsto you by insisting that she need not distress herself.”

“And the—the defense?”

“John had no defense that could be made in such a proceeding.His attorney’s declaration that Mr. Cabot hadnothing which he cared to offer in the way of testimony mayhave convinced the crowd that you were being used, eitherwith or without your consent, to lift his yoke, but it clearlypuzzled the judge. Before we reach our destination, MissTrent, I want to express something of the high esteem inwhich I hold you. Oh, don’t draw back—don’t look sofrightened! This is no declaration in the ordinary sense.”

Removing his hat, he rubbed his egg-white forehead asthough it were a vocabulary from which words might beextracted by friction.

“Never have I been in the plight called ‘love’—never expectto be,” he continued. “In any case, never shall I marry.Maybe because I thought so much of that mother o’ mine.Maybe because I think so little of marriage. Can you seehumor in the statement that women, while my professionalspecialty, are not at all in my line personally? That factmay help you to appreciate what I want to say to you.”

He turned toward her with the combination of wistfulnessand whimsicality in his smile which first had attractedand then animated the lonely girl.

“Miss Trent,” said he, “I think you are the truest womanI ever have met. I am obsessed by the thought of you. Oh,not you, really; rather the idea you represent—the idea ofabsolute truth. A woman like you should not fear theopinion of anyone. Will you remember that—say, when liftingyour eyes to those of the very next person you meet?”

Dolores assured him that she would. At the same time,in her thoughts, she assured herself. Just as the primaryappetence common to all animal life is the right to live, thesecond appetence common to women is the right to love.She was not ashamed of her love when facing that innertribunal called Truth. Why, indeed, should she fear theopinion of any man? Rufus Holt, despite the conventionallimitations of his “ideas” of her, was right. She would not,could not feel ashamed.

To a place no more official than the bachelor apartmentsof Justice Roscoe Strang did Rufus Holt dare take the girlwho was not his client. And when a Japanese man-servanthad ushered them both into the somewhat sombre anteroom,he passed on into a library, but left the door behind himajar, evidently that she might overhear his conversation withhis friend.

“You, Rufus?”

“Yes, Roscoe, and about that case I tried before you thismorning—the Cabot divorce. I’m afraid that a wrong isbeing done.”

A bass chortle sounded. “That’s what modern marriageis—doing each other wrong.”

“But this is a wrong gone wrong in that it does not strikeright. I have the Cabot co-respondent outside. I want youto meet her.”

“Not the Trent girl?” The scrape of a chair underscoreda muttered oath. “You don’t dare presume on ourfriendship to—to——”

“Not to commit a professional breach, no,” interruptedHolt. “You ought to know me better than that. And don’tcall her ‘the Trent girl.’ No matter whose lawyer I am, Itell you that she does not deserve it.”

“Then why didn’t she take the stand? It always looksbad for a woman when she won’t fight for her good name.And why wouldn’t this great philanthropist friend of yourssay a word for her, not to mention himself?”

“John Cabot is too big a man to be dragged into a courtdefense of the sort. And any man who hopes to meet hismother’s questioning eyes in Paradise would hesitate tocrucify this girl with any more vulgar notoriety. Roscoe,for once in my life, the man in me has convinced the lawyer.Now, as never before, I want the scales of the blind goddessto weigh with justice.”

“It would seem that one latter-day goddess must have beenalready weighed—and with justice—to have made suchgooseberry jam out of your heart of flint. A face that canmake you forget to be a lawyer first! I’d like to see——”

Before “the friend” whom Holt wished her to meet couldretract or modify, Dolores was led into the larger room.She found that “that very next person” to whose eyes shewould lift her own was the judge of the case of Cabot vs.Cabot. And while she did not remember—not exactly—thecompliment paid her in the cab, she met his shrewd gazewith her own defense. He looked for the truth. He saw it—thatshe felt no shame.

What they said did not matter—probably could not havebeen recalled by any of the three. Their brief chat was significantonly through the things they might not say.

In Justice Strang Dolores saw a man who filled her withconfidence. The determination to know the worst abouthimself and conquer it showed in the set of his jaw. Hisred necktie had action—even daring. His attire otherwise,like his manner, was conventional.

He escorted them into the hall and to the elevator. Justbefore the door clicked shut upon them he said so emphaticallythat the elevator-man turned and stared curiously ather:

“Young lady, you have the most eloquent personality Ihave ever met.”

And so it came about that the decision denying CatherineCabot her divorce came to the press as a thunder-clap twodays later. The comment that resulted Justice Strang metwith interviews in which he put unanswerable questions.Who suffered most, the innocent or the guilty? To makethe innocent suffer—was not that a culpable act? Whathad been proved? The wife’s evidence was unavailable.The maid had disappeared. The detectives could testify tonothing that was proof of guilt. Why elect a judicialpuppet? Of what use was a judge not entitled to disregardeverything except his own honest opinion?

Thus it transpired that Dolores Trent, having been convictedunjustly in the public mind of the several past offensesascribed to her, found herself vindicated of the one crimeagainst Society of which she really was guilty as charged.

Each morning a magnificent box from an Avenue floristwas delivered to the interesting occupant of a small, furnishedsuite in an up-town apartment hotel. The regularityof the “attention” quipped the management’s curiosity concerning“Miss Trevor.” Usually such regardlessness wasfollowed by a gentleman in a hired car, wearing a fur-linedovercoat and a manner at once suave and impatient. But nogentleman had shown interest in this lady since the apartmenthad been engaged and paid for by one whose coat was mostunpretentious and whose manner was neither suave norimpatient—a pleasant-spoken, bald-pated, breezy type of aman who somehow did not seem the sort to be telling itdaily “in flowers.”

Dolores herself had to guess from whom they came, justas she assumed John Cabot’s wish that she let him fulfillhis promise to Jack “to look after her” until such time ashe thought wise to see her. Rufus Holt, who had foundand advised the new location, had made no explanation.Even when he had closed her fingers around a roll of fiveone-hundred-dollar bills, he had left her to assumption.

But Dolores knew. And, knowing, she was in a way content.Alone except for the Airedale puppy, who had greetedher more vociferously than the rest of her luggage, sherelaxed in her sense of an all-protective love and tried tolive on the significance of deep-hearted pansies, Americanbeauties and forget-me-nots.

At the end of the fourth week a receipt was tucked underher living-room door for the second month’s rental in advance.That it was not for three months—or six—gave hera feeling of anticipation. A month at a time meant that achange might be expected before the third payment becamedue. With the expenditure of each dollar of her cash-in-handthis feeling increased. Five hundred dollars was avery great deal of money. But even five hundred would beconsumed in time by one healthy young woman and onefast-growing dog. An all-protective love must realize that.Perhaps by the time the five hundred was gone——.

She had to fight her first impulses of extravagance. Hertendency was to tip unwisely and too well, to order asuperfluity of the disguising veils she had taken to wearingon the long river-side tramps which were the anticipation ofthe Airedale’s mornings and the reminiscences of his puppydreams at night; to let him grow too fat. Unable to decidewhat name for the dog Jack’s old-young mind would havehit upon, she continued to call him “puppy” or “pups,” ascertain unimaginative people she had known were satisfiedwith “kittie” for their cat or “baby” for their child.

Conscientiously allowing herself only legitimate expenditures,Dolores’ gladness increased, as her roll of bills thinned,that it had not been a thousand, seven hundred, or even six.It might so easily have been more. Toward the end of thesecond month she felt hopeful—almost sure—that the worstsoon would be over. The very thought of it dizzied her withhappiness. To see him again, if only for a moment ortwo——.

But she had to be satisfied with hearing his voice. Rungsuddenly from her sleep one night, she half believed histelephone call a dream until the metallic sound of his up-hungreceiver told her that the opportunity was passed.Until morning she lay awake, fondling, one by one, his carefullycovered sentences.

He had intended not to speak with her at present. Butthe wish had conquered him to-night to hear her assurancethat she understood. He had been a criminal and must workout his sentence. Under a sacred obligation to protect her,he had injured her at each attempt, from the finale at thelingerie shop to her present exile. She had shown pity forhis weakness before and perhaps could forgive him now. Henever could himself.

He had been overcome in the moment of his greateststrength, when he had felt safe in his sorrow. Now, whenweakest, he dared not tempt himself. His only chance ofreinstating himself in his own opinion was to win the fighthe had undertaken. Their loyal acquaintance would explain.

Meantime was she well and would she try to be contenteduntil he could force a change? And would she believe?

That she did believe steadied Dolores through the discouragementof another prepaid rent receipt. When the“change” came, it was not of John’s enforcement. Oneafternoon Rufus Holt called on her. He came in on thebreeze that wafted him through life. His smile was stillcheery, his manner even more courteous than usual. Yet hewas different. Considerately he attempted to “explain.”

The late chapters of that gilt-bound edition of womanhood,Catherine Cabot, read like the cheapest of thrillers.Soon after reëstablishing herself in her husband-less home,she had sent for Dr. Shayle. What had passed between herand the likable young man whom she had “made” in a weekwas best judged by the fact that she un-made him in a day.In notes, over the telephone and during such informal socialfunctions as she could make excuse to attend in her mourning,she ruined him professionally. To his rich practice sheexpressed her regrets that she no longer could sponsor him—thathis conduct with one who had brought disgrace to somany had proved him an unfit person to have about the homein his intimate capacity. All of which reminded Holt thathe had a letter for her.

The envelope which he tendered was addressed to andhad been opened by John Cabot. Above the heading of aChicago hotel was scrawled the osteopath’s name. Insidewas the request that Mr. Cabot forward to Miss Trent theunsealed enclosure.

The note to Dolores read:

So then; to one, at least, she had not been a lasting grief!Dolores felt very proud for herself and for Clarke Shayle.She turned to her caller with the impulse to confide her goodnews, but hesitated at the look of him. He had yielded tothe Airedale’s importunities and was scratching the stub ears.The eyes of the dog were rolling from realized bliss. Thoseof the implement of bliss were troubled. She could see thatattorney Holt was planning whatever he had come to say.

“Miss Trent,” he began on noting that he again had herattention, “Mr. Cabot has been acting under my insistentadvice in not coming to see you. I know that he wishes tocome. My stand is based upon my high regard for him and,may I add, for you? He intends to accomplish a divorcefrom Mrs. Cabot as soon as possible, but on his own terms—termsprimarily calculated to repudiate the slurs cast uponyou. His ruling desire is to save your good name. I wantto see him carry out this idea. Miss Trent, do you?”

“Why—why, yes,” faltered the girl.

“I am glad to hear you say that, because—Well, you andhe, lovely little lady, know better than I just why. Hisposition is at present extremely jeopardous. He is watchednight and day by detectives.”

“More detectives? But I thought——”

“I did, too. Mrs. Cabot, however, has not accepted JudgeStrang’s decision as final. She has postponed her trip abroadand from Newport is directing an attack on his integrityand mine. Through influence and the manipulations of abrilliant shyster, she is trying to re-open the case in anothercourt. Meanwhile, she is acting on the theory expressed inthe old French proverb that ‘love and smoke are unable toconceal themselves?’”

Evidently love, at least, was not. With his white, slimhand Holt shielded his eyes from sight of her face and continued:

“More than before is the Cabot name threatened, yourgood name and mine. Unless we are discreet she may have acase which just might convince a judge less discerning thanmy friend Roscoe Strang and let the Bar Association get itsclaws into me. If your whereabouts should be chanced upon,if the florist should be inspired to tell of the daily flowerspaid for by the lawyer who lost Mrs. Cabot’s first case,even if friend pup here should yap his identity abroad—Doyou see, Miss Trent, why my advice has been insistent?”

After a keen glance at her he continued: “But I fearthat my advice is losing its punch. You see, I have an imagination.I know John Cabot and I have seen you. PerhapsI haven’t made clear the absolute faith I feel in both of you.Wish I could put it beautifully with all the words and music.But we men weren’t meant to be gods in strength, you know.Why, even I have a secret vice!”

He smiled across at her youthfully; at her continuedsilence, added:

“I wriggle my toes.”

But the girl did not smile back. She couldn’t

“What is it you wish me to do?” she asked.

“I wish you to put yourself beyond reach. John’s weakspot is you. He acknowledges it. He looks haggard andacts worse—is beginning to fear that he can’t hold out.And, of course, with that fear in his heart, he won’t. Iwish you to remove his temptation—until matters are adjusted,not to let him know your whereabouts and under nocirc*mstances to write to him. Even his mail may be watched—therecan be traitors in any man’s office—and nothing is sodamning as written evidence.”

“Oh, but I—he——”

“Poor child.” Holt’s interruption expressed ever so muchof his pity. “Child first, then woman. You acknowledgethat I am right, don’t you? Then aren’t you willing to helphim? Only you can help him now. John is not a man totalk, as you know, but he knows that I am his friend. ‘Ihave just strength enough to stay away,’ he told me. ‘I’mafraid that if I saw her, if she called me by so much as alook——’ You see, Miss Trent, the state to which the longstrain has reduced him? You want him to win his fight,don’t you, for sake of his future and your own?”

“But you ask us to act like guilty persons,” she plead.“Judge Strang said ‘not guilty.’ To me that means thatwhat—whatever we feel for each other is not guilt. If he isnot guilty, then neither am I. Why should I lower myselfto the standards of the world—why should I hide?”

“Because you are in the world and of it. I profess onlya man’s friendship for John Cabot. But to protect him Iplayed a rôle which is likely to ruin me professionally. Herelies on me at present to look after you. In the event ofhis demanding to see you it would be better if even I didnot know your whereabouts. I’d advise that you go to theshore somewhere. Let my secretary know when you decidejust where—you can reach him by telephone—and yourremittances will be sent regularly through him. Come,lovely lady, what do you say? Is all John Cabot’s strengthto be discounted by his weakness for you?”

Dolores leaned over a bowl of purple pansies that kepteyeing her from a nearby tabourette; gazed into theiringenuous faces.

“But he wouldn’t leave me without a word, I know. Whatwould he think—how would he feel if I——”

“Only in the event of his weakening need he know. HaveI impressed you with the fact that once he begins to see you,he and I are done for? You are a woman of whom I wouldhave expected that self-sacrificing passion with which a man’sfriendship compares as a handshake to love’s first kiss. Areyou unwilling to seem to lose your case with him for a littlewhile?”

He arose, found his hat and stood for a moment lookingdown at her. But she looked only into the pansies’ hearts.A hopeful smile was on his face as he turned. He noddedconfidently at the Airedale, just before closing the door, veryquietly, after him.

The puppy, a man’s dog, sat sniffing and whining at thesill for some time after his congenial acquaintance had gone.But Dolores did not bewail the attorney’s exit. With a furystrange to her, she resented his call, his gentleness and thecruelty which it wrapped.

What manner of friendship was his, smilingly to urge thetorture of his friend in order to save himself? Where wasthe worth of admiration that demanded of a peccable humanpassion the blamelessness of one divine? The pansies knewand she knew. But if John learned that she had hidden herselfaway from him, how could he be expected to know?Love was tender and easily hurt.

Rufus Holt admitted that he never had loved; that he hadonly his imagination to depend upon. How dared he, then,dictate to a woman whom he had acclaimed true as truth?

But that night a third voice entered the argument.

As Dolores lay abed, wooing in vain the healthful slumberso seldom denied her, she came to wonder whether thesensations which disturbed her were all mental. Could shebe physically ill?

As, hour on hour, the wonder and the strangeness of thestirring within her grew, answer came in a wee, small voice—thevoice of fear—the voice of hope—perhaps, indeed, thevoice of that God said to speak through “the least of these.”With none else to tell her, Dolores understood. And in thedarkness a great glory seemed to flood the room. Her heart,which had slowed almost to stopping lest she miss the message,near burst now with painful joy.

The voice, faint and from far away, had whispered unmistakably:

“Woman, I am coming—thy fulfillment.”

CHAPTER XXI

Dolores never sent her address to Rufus Holt’s secretary,although she came in course of time to need the remittanceswhich were to be forwarded through him. She hated Holtand loved John too much for that. Should that whisper inthe night be heard by the world, the fight of the strong wouldindeed be lost to the weak. There was no choice. She musthide herself that “little while,” guilty though she might appear.

She lived in various places. She found various employment.

There was the naturalized tailor who rented the basem*ntof the house where she had found a room and who seemedto assume from “Mrs. Trevor’s” face that she could baste“straight.” But she did not “naturalize,” either to the shopor his idea of her, and he took to complaining of her work.His subtlety was inadequate to cover his relief when shetransferred to a restaurant, one of the sort to which ladieswere “cordially” invited. But there came a day when thisproprietor, as well, begrudged the price of his mistake.

Even time and time’s tutelage did not take the strangenessfrom the fact that no one wanted her about any more.

Weeks and months passed—Spring and Summer and anotherFall-time. She was forced to look at her funds, alsoat the necessity to make them do. That grew to be her chiefconcern—to make them do.

Moving her bags was expensive and thinning an Airedaleto the finest “point” of safety entailed anxiety. His canineprotests against the experiment were what first lifted her eyesto a sign beside the door of a substantial house. A savouryodor of beef stew wafted from the downstairs windows andattracted the young dog so powerfully that, with ears laidback and muscles straining against his leash, he pulled herup the first two steps. What attracted the girl was the invitationof brass letters laid upon an ebony board:

Retreat for Wayward Girls

For more than two hours they had been walking slowly.Each day now they walked more slowly. And the slowerthey walked, the more urgent had grown their present landlady’s“want” of their room. The window signs were scarcein this cheap section of the city, said to be congested beyondall record. And such “To Lets” as they had found weresaid at the doors, after momentary inspection, to be already“taken.”

So now, weariness and the odor of stew on the crispautumn air decided the dog. The cold sunlight falling uponthe topmost, polished word of the sign—RETREAT—decidedthe girl.

The matron proved to be a quite good imitation of amother. The girls under her charge were mostly repentant—someshe had graduated into good cheer. “Waywardness”was an infliction to be frankly discussed; to be vied over,sighed and cried over with consoling camaraderie. Eventhe dog was pitied. Indeed, his demands for ready reliefwere met far too generously for his gastronomic good.

Although the “new girl” did not explain about herself—therewas no need of that—she relaxed within the warmingatmosphere of the retreat and tried hard to please. Interestedlyshe listened to tales of the benevolent gentlemanwho directed the philanthropy. With so many examples ofwaywardness about her, she came to take a less strainedview of her plight.

But the night and day stories poured into her ears—storiesof the undying devotion of the varied “friends” in the variedinmates’ cases who, through varied circ*mstances, had beenseparated from their hearts’ desires by cruel Fate—filled herwith a longing for John Cabot that increased with the approachof her ordeal. Despite her unselfish resolves, shewanted him to know. He must have been hurt if he knewof her seeming desertion. Her past fear of the “risks,” asitalicized by Rufus Holt, was wiped off the slate of her mind.The risk of death, which involved the greater risk of lossof love, was writ instead—to stay.

She decided to disregard the lawyer’s caution to the extentof a telephone call to John’s office. But he was not inand she dared not leave name or number. To put anythingin writing was dangerous. Holt had warned her, yet a notewas the only recourse left—one brief, careful note. Stationeryand a pen she secured from the matron; forced herselfto write briefly and constrainedly; addressed it to Mr.Cabot’s banking-house. Lest she permit apprehension tochange her mind, she placed her finished missive at once onthe table in the hall, where it would be given to the postmanon his next round.

She was returning to her room—very slowly now—whenthe ensuing dialogue, first in a woman’s voice, then in aman’s, came to her ears from behind a door marked “PRIVATE”that gave into the hall.

“With a sham like you, there’s nothing to life. Whydidn’t I see in time that my husband was the one who shouldhave lived—you the one to die?”

“How like a woman, to shift the blame! Wasn’t thewhole scheme your own—the cat-boat, the surprise attack,that weird knowledge of——”

“Hush, for Heaven’s sake!”

“See, you’re the guilty one. You tremble at the truth. Inever had heard of a death-spot in the human ear. I couldn’thave struck true. And I couldn’t have play-acted your griefover the accident. Certainly you ought to grant, Mary, thatI was all right then. Expected we’d be married like otherfolks, once we’d got the business well started on the capitalfrom his life insurance. You say you have no respect forme. Well, there’s more than one cause for a loss of respect.What about mine for you? How can I know when some newlover will tempt you to drive a nail through the lobe ofmy ear—to throw me into a tide rip? It isn’t a man’snature, I tell you——”

“Don’t call yourself a man. You have cheated me unforgivably.And yet——”

“‘And yet.’ Thank God we’ve reached argument’s endfor to-day! We both know what we know and that I canprove it. More than you hate me you fear me. Come, wemight as well be friends.”

“Friends? Remember that I can prove it, too, on you.”

“But you won’t, dear heart. Aren’t you tired yet of threateningme? Eventually you’ll settle to living it out peaceablyon my terms. Why not now? Come. Be a sensible souland agree——”

One of the voices alone might have puzzled Dolores, buttogether she had recognized both. They had struck herlike a blow. As if physically stunned, she had clung to thebalustrade for aid in undertaking the first few steps of thestairway. By now, more strength came to her. Quietly andrapidly as she could, she toiled beyond ear-shot up theflight.

Out of breath she collapsed on her narrow iron bed; layrealizing, not only the significance to herself of what shehad overheard, but its meaning to the two principals aswell.

So that was the hideous bond that tied them. That waswhy each pretended an affection for, considered and, ifneed be, defended the other. They had paid a human lifefor love and found that crime brought only mutual contempt.

Through the realization of what enforced their hostile,yet voluntary companionship came personal anxiety. Herletter—what if he should notice and examine it? Whyhadn’t she taken it out and posted it herself?

But there was no time to be wasted over futile afterthoughts.She could not chance his reading so much asthe address. She must recover her letter.

From the head of the stairs she could not see whetheror not it still lay on the table, which stood in the hall nearthe street entrance. She could see, however, that the doormarked “PRIVATE” was ajar. As no sound of voices cameto her, she concluded that the two in the hateful lockstepmust have gone. She counted possible costs, then againdescended the stairs.

They stood beside the table. Not until she saw theirfaces would she believe the worst. Not only had he noticedthe address of the letter, but had opened and was reading it.

A smile was on his face—the æsthetic, pale-eyed, appealingface of Vincent Seff. His agreeable laugh sounded ashe turned to Mrs. Hutton.

“Of all the chickens to come home to roost in the coopof little Vin! You remember that pugilistic Puritan, JohnCabot? As addressed to him, Mary, what can these hieroglyphicsmean? Listen:

“‘Soon a rosebud will open its petals to the world. Imay not stay to care for it. I depend on you.’”

Impulse ruled Dolores. She crossed the hall; stretchedout her hand for the letter; faced them.

“It is mine. You have no right to read it.”

For a long moment Seff simply looked at her. Then hetook the lavender-bordered ’kerchief from his sleeve andwith it wiped his lips.

“Well met,” said he at last, “Miss Nectarine.”

“You have no right to open a sealed and stamped letterintended for the mails,” Dolores insisted. “Will you giveit back to me or shall I appeal to the head of this institution?”

“Appeal. I am the head of the institution. I have a rightto do whatsoever I see fit within its hallowed walls.” Thesatisfaction of his smile increased.

Mrs. Hutton, a shade grayer, calmer and handsomer, atfirst had looked chiefly astonished. Now she intervened.

“Best give it back, Vin. Being what you are—or rather,what you aren’t—you can have no interest in the affairs ofthis girl, unless that——”

“Unless that I do feel so obligated by my debts and herI owe so much. But take your delicate little effusion. Icouldn’t possibly forget a word of it.”

Her letter in hand, Dolores turned and was about to undertakethe stairs again, when he stopped her.

“Just a moment, Miss Trent. How long will it take youto retreat yourself out of here?”

“To retreat?” she asked. “But I thought the object ofthis house——”

“Allow me to explain. The purpose of the institution isto help girls who repent of their waywardness, not to encouragehardened sinners. I have followed your career in thenewspapers. I consider it a privilege to have read yourlatest attempt at extortion. Naturally I assume that, onceyour present handicap is overcome, you’ll go on, like abrook, purling round the hearts of men—on and on and on.There are public reformatories for persons of your sort.To realize our ideals, we must be somewhat particularhere.”

Mrs. Hutton, as well as the girl, looked at him. Drawnto the full of his dapper height, his face lit by artisticappreciation of his own pose, his gesture delicately drawn,he might have impressed a stranger as the benevolent ofthe inmates’ praise.

But Mary Hutton was not a stranger. That equivocallyproud yet contemptuous smile was on her lips as she turnedto Dolores.

“You at least will have a child. I have nothing—nothing,”she remarked. “Don’t be annoyed by a little thing like VincentSeff turned to philanthropy and good works.”

The ultimatum of the head of the Retreat increasedthe urgency of Dolores’ letter. She posted it herself beforesetting out to find a new place. She was fortunate, however.Before night she had located a rooming-house “lady” sufficientlyin need, sufficiently pessimistic, sufficiently old andshiftless and poor-spirited to waive references and accepttwo weeks’ rental in advance. Here she laid in what shestill could pay for toward her needs; here lived along andwaited with hard-dying hope.

Since she had found the place so soon, she regretted thehasty posting of her note. Rather than chance another ofthose risks to John, of which the deposed shop-keeper’s suggestionshad increased her fear, she had given her newaddress to that quite good imitation of a mother, the matronof the Retreat, for the forwarding of mail or the convenienceof any friends who might telephone about her or call tosee her.

The incidents of her days became the variation frommorning confidence to evening despondency; of her nights,the discarding, under crush of the blackness, of one afteranother of her schemes for a second and more directmessage. And, whether in the daytime or at night, a barkof the dog at an unaccustomed sound would rouse her toradiance—to heart-hammering joy; or his growling returnto the tedium of his life would bring her back to heart-stillingdisappointment. Either John had made no responseto her appeal or the matron had failed to supply the address.

Heavier upon her pressed thoughts of the power of herenemies. Where would her note lead Catherine Cabot if itchanced into the hands of her hirelings? What might notSeff reveal? How much might those omniscient detectiveslearn from their watch of John?

So far Fate had conspired against her with a nice regardfor every detail. She became possessed by the pertinentquery: Why should she expect the mind of Fate to change?

Any question over the advisability of telephoning RufusHolt was answered by her inability to go out in search ofa booth. Just before one fevered dawn the idea of advertisem*ntcame and crowded out the sickening controversyover whether John or the matron was to blame. Whyhadn’t that occurred to her before? In a return of expectation,she composed a “personal” that seemed to her adequately“covered”—recognizable only to him addressed.There was piquancy in the thought that the Press which hadbeen her enemy should now serve her as a friend. Fortunatethat she knew which of the morning papers he was accustomedto read with care—doubly fortunate that there stillwas enough left of her hoard to pay for a single notice.

The poor-spirited landlady looked especially pessimisticover the errand on which she was asked to go, any chanceof a reward depending upon its success. Her new tenantwas likely to be a great deal of trouble, she anticipated aloud,and she never before had been reduced to taking dogs. Hadnot the room been so long vacant, she would not have consideredthe pair of them. She suspected, moreover, fromthe things they were doing without, that they had aboutreached the limit of their wherewithal. However, none couldsay but what she always looked on the bright side ofthings and she’d do her best about getting all the displaythe money would buy for the personal.

Dolores’ confidence increased after the old woman hadgone. Such doubts as crowded in, she exorcised with thereminder that her advertisem*nt would have succeeded orfailed in one day’s time. Often in the past she had deploredthe fact that the marvelous output of the press should diein a day; now she rejoiced in the fact. By to-morrow hewould have come or—But she would not—dared not facethe alternative.

That night her baby was born.

The old woman did what she had time for and the charitydoctor stayed a while. Afterward, Dolores must have sunkinto a state of semi-consciousness—must have slept or dozedaway the time, for she roused to incredulity on being told thatit was noon of the next day.

Two other facts penetrated her listlessness. The life ofthat day’s Times must soon be spent and her child was agirl.

Suppose he did not come. That meant that another girl-childwas fatherless. Already, in the world’s opinion, shewould be accounted worse than motherless.

As before, time became merely a variation of hope anddespondency.... What was that? Surely, an Airedalebred to watchfulness would not grow so excited had he notrecognized a step or voice!... But no, he was a sillydog, silly and extremely bored. He and she, too, must haveimagined the step and the voice.

A girl, their babe—a hapless, little human, who was notto inherit even such paternal affection and care as could bespared from poppy paste. Another girl she had brought intoa world which had no justice for unprotected girls....Perhaps, if he did not come, it would be best that their babybe spared the learning of life—the humiliations, the disillusionments,the death-stab of love that lied.... Since hehad not come, love must have lied. Both her messages wouldnot have gone astray. There was significance in this secondfailure. Too late to protect her from his weakness hadcome his strength. If he did not, would not come——

She must be very ill; must have dozed off a while—that is,if the old woman told the truth about night having comeagain.... Likely she had told the truth, for the roomwas quite dark, except for the one dim gas-jet lit in the old-fashionedchandelier.

The landlady had come in to say that she wanted the roomas soon as Dolores was able to get about. A refined adult—asingle gentleman—had enquired about it that day. Mrs.Trevor should remember her saying from the first that shenever took in dogs or babies. She knew what babies were—justone sick spell after another. And she had no space inthe back-yard for regular laundry. She was a kind-heartedwoman and honest about her bargains, the Lord knew. Butshe had herself to think of and the other folks in the house.She wasn’t one to worry a fellow woman sick-a-bed, but thegent had said he would stop in the morning for his answer.Naturally, she would need to name the exact day he couldcome. Her soft heart always had been her worst enemy,but business was business.

After the old woman had dismalled herself out, Dolores’gaze again strayed to the gas-jet. The turned-down flamefascinated her and seemed to make a light in her mind. Itflickered an answer to the embarrassing question of whenshe could give over the room.... What time was it now?...Nine o’clock.... The day that was the life ofa news sheet was long since done....

There were three jets to the chandelier. It wasn’t going totake long. Already she was affected by the fumes. The dogwas sniffing suspiciously, whining protest....

“A life for a life,” she told him unfeelingly, thinking ofJack, the only one who ever had loved without harmingher. But then—the Airedale, after all, had not asked Jack’slife any more than she had asked her mother’s.... Shearose, tottered to the door, took him by the nape of the neckand thrust him into the pure air of the hall.

Fortunately the babe was too young to realize or complain;would never know about life—never know. Doloresheld the small form to her heart and shuddered anew overwhat life might have meted out to so tiny and helpless acreature.

“There is the mark of the seal they call the signet ofSolomon,” she mumbled through the dark to the chandelier.“There are to will and to have your will. There are yoursocial ideas, your excesses, your pleasures that end indeath——”

Who was it had reminded her of Maupassant not so verylong ago? Oh, yes.... That night.... What,indeed, was folly but “a riotous expenditure of will”?...He had not seemed a man to shirk the obligationsof his folly—John Cabot—that night. Yet he had not come....So tender he had seemed in his madness for her;so willing to deny himself; so determined to consider her.He had made her realize the happiness which she and Jackhad tried to learn from a bird.... Still, where now—happiness?...And God—where was God?

Who was bending over her?... Amor—could thatbe the gallant love-lad, so broken and so gaunt? Had hecome to mock her?... And was it Innocentia clinging,peaked and weeping, to his hand?

Sorry comforters, the two. Their visit distressed hermore than the nauseous fumes from the jets.

There were Vincent Seff and Mary Hutton, now. Whywere they still together?... Strange that whicheverdied first, the other would be there, attentive to the endlest the fear of God overcome the fear of man in a death-bedrepentance.... They could be sure of each other’scompany to the end.... Hate, then, bound peoplecloser than love.... Love? How lonely was love!

“I never—knew God, but I knew—you. Why—why hastthou—forsaken—me?”

The gasp was wrung from her stress of body and soul. Inthe darkness and the aloneness it quavered heartbrokenlyupward with her thought of John Cabot.

Then she remembered the lady she had admired in therailway station, long, long ago—the lady who had sneezed.She hadn’t made the usual fuss about it; had just leanedout and done it, neatly and composedly.... What washuman life but a sneeze? Birth was the warning; youth thepreparation; life the sniffing and death the wiping of eyes.After death perhaps one settled back into composure....The lady had proved a good example in so many crises of herlife. It was well to have remembered her in death....She must make no fuss; must do it neatly and composedly.

She threw back her head; set her lips hard; breathed deepand long ... deep and long ... deep andlong....

CHAPTER XXII

“A woman clothed with the sun, and the moonunder her feet and upon her head a crown of twelvestars. And she, being with child, cried, travailingin birth and pained to be delivered.”

The girl-shade heard the words intoned in mezzo voce. Atthe door of the throne-room she paused, loath to enter thenext scene of the co-star piece. All the day following thecompletion of her story of earth she had lain within herchamber, in a state of narcosis, varied only by the dullache of dread. All day she had expected the summons whichnow had come, that she appear before the King. Throughthe séances she had done her best; had whipped her spiritas a slave-seller might have lashed some modest, naked bodyon the block. She had come for the reckoning. If so be itshe had met the royal expectations, her reward would bethat lowest high office yet assigned in Greater Gehenna—She-Destroyerof Womankind. If she had failed——

“And the dragon stood before the woman whichwas ready to be delivered, for to devour her child assoon as it was born.”

Again the deep intonations. Glancing into the blaze oflight which had confused her eyes after her approachthrough the dim, winding corridors, Dolores saw a tall figurein the full effect of male evening attire on earth, withback toward her and gestures directed into one of the mercurizedwalls.

Her hesitation was mastered by surprise. Even on closerview, she scarcely could believe that this superb copy of themen of Earth indeed was His Satanic Majesty. His hair,formerly pompadoured to conceal his horns, was clipped,parted on one side and slicked back, the indices of powerevidently razored close. The auburn Vandyke which hadbeen inseparable from her concept of him was the morenoticeable now for its absence. In its place, a smile whosecharm would have been hard to describe clothed the well-sculpedlips.

The lines and color of His Highness’ costume adhered towhat she knew was “latest” form—all except his tie. Thatwas of a red which vividly reminded her of that JusticeRoscoe Strang, whose independence of judicial precedenthad been suggested by a like daring note in otherwise sombredress.

“Ah, sweet Grief,” he saluted her. “I feel indebted to youfor the basic idea of my sermon on ‘The Service of Suicide.’You’ve caught me at a rehearsal. I was just reading my text,‘To Hell with the Ill-Begot.’ We mustn’t overlook thepropaganda out of the mouths of babes and sucklings inour new Drive of Destruction, eh?”

“Mustn’t we?” she evaded wretchedly.

“Come, cheer down! Did my mere mention of a sermonmake you pull the doleful face of the average religionistin church? You haven’t said how you like my style to-night.Am I not beautiful and à la mode?”

He appeared to be in an unusually amiable mood. A turnor two he took around her, evidently to note the reflectionon her face as well as in the mirror.

“Is it possible——” in sudden suspicion he peered at her—“thatyou don’t like me razored?”

“You look—very well.”

“I look—‘very well.’” He aped her effortful tone. “Didstnote her burst of enthusiasm? In gratitude, she’s not so differentfrom the rest of womankind. What one of themever realized that a man would rather remove a mountainfrom the physiognomy of the earth than the beard from hisface? As for the horns from his head!”

“But really, I do like it—very well indeed!”

“‘Very well indeed’!” Satan threw out his hands in afarcical gesture of despair. “What man who shaves hisbeard to please a woman ever really pleases her?”

“To please me, Your Lowness?”

“Sin’s idea. That silhouette you drew of your pet philanthropistshows you to have preconceived ideas of the looksof latter-day devils. I haven’t spent centuries catering tohuman preconceptions for nothing. Presto, even JohnCabot’s crime toward you is no blacker than my cut-facedclothes! My tie is a bit off—that is on—color, as it were.But I notice that no man is held accountable for his tastein cravats. Maybe I was dressed like a character part.”

With the frank self-appreciation of a husband who has justbeen hectored into an evening suit by his wife, he turnedfor a critical survey of her appearance.

“Glad to see you looking fit to go out with me,” heapproved. “I have planned to take you to a show.”

“To hear you preach?” She put the assumption rathereagerly. “I am so glad. I have hoped each night youwould take me. Frequently when hearing you talk, I havewondered whether you would—whether you wouldn’t——”

She faltered at his look of amazement.

“If I wouldn’t just what, child?” he encouraged with allthe unctuous kindliness of the Rev. Dr. Alexander Willard.

“Wouldn’t teach me the Scriptures. You seem to knowthem by heart.”

“By head, not by heart. There’s a difference, you know.Ingersoll knew them by head.” Satan’s chuckles began withcontemplation of her idea. “Really, you are either the mostnaïve or the most intriguing of lost souls.”

“But seriously,” she insisted.

“Oh, seriously!” He laughed the more. “Well, seriously,my poor child, I’d advise you to remember the clay feet ofthe ‘Sporting Parson.’ Far be it from me to try to improvea perfectly bad mind. ‘The Little Book shall be in thymouth sweet as honey, but shall make thy belly bitter.’ That’sone of my own handy, illiterate translations. M’lady, thecarriage awaits. Time we were on our way.”

He was pleased to drive her to the promised entertainmentin his favorite Hawk. While drifting through thedrab air of night in Gehenna, lit only by that “pale, abidinglight” whose dynamo was beyond control of his electricians,he explained the kind of “show” to which he was escortingher. In it he was not to star, no. It was only a motionpicture, but one in which he felt that she, as well as he,would take interest.

They were to see, in fact, a picturization of certain unfinisheddetails connected with her own career on earth, overwhich he, for one, felt curiosity. He had ordered the life-filmsto date of John Cabot brought from the supply houseand cut to give a comprehensive exposé of a character thatwould refuse to heed the death cries of a girl whom, by thehonor code of Earth, he was bound to protect. Satan himselfhad hit on an apt title, but had not previewed the pictureand had left the sub-titling to his first fiend-scenarist. Hehoped for an entertaining and regardless presentation.

At the Devil’s Own Playhouse it was evident that thefeature had been extensively billed. The capacity of thetheater was taxed to standing-room when the King led hisinteresting guest into the royal box. Down over the billowsof faces that waved back at their entrance, Dolores lookedwith pitying eyes. On a few was apathy; on more, feveredeagerness; on most, apprehension. The Sea of the Fear ofDespair they were—a Dead Sea, indeed. She, too, soon wascarried out toward its white-caps of hoping thoughts, caughtin its undertow. This she realized from the emotionwithin herself which began with the curtain’s rise—the deepsof heartbreak disturbed by the high-winds of hope.

The camera was said not to lie. If His Highness’ boastedtopical review was bona-fide, some excuse might evolve forhim who had refused to heed her call.

The series of incidents unfolded upon the super-quicksilver screen may most readily be grasped, perhaps, by aperusal of the working synopsis to which the master-directorof Hell Films cut the production.

THE TURN TURTLE

HIS SATANIC MAJESTY
Presents
John Cabot
In Facts from His Natural History
Shown in Three Turns.

(On Screen)

The turn turtle is an insignificant reptile, greatonly in its cowardice. It never looks danger in theface, but at first alarm pulls in its head and scuddlesaway. Watch this one.

Turtle enters slowly. Protrudes head. Looks around.Face changes to that of John Cabot. A pair of hands—recognizablyDolores Trent’s—appear. Stretch toward turtle.Face shows fright. Head withdraws into shell. Turtlecrawls off.

(On Screen)

THE FIRST TURN

John Cabot enters his Broad Street office. Seats himselfat desk. Goes through pile of letters in weary manner. Stopsto study one.

(Show, in Dolores’ Handwriting—Envelope of Dolores’ note,with “Personal” underscored and the return address ofRetreat for Wayward Girls in corner.)

John interrupted by arrival of Rufus Holt who looksworried, but tries to cheer up when John asks about Dolores.Attorney assures John:

(Insert) “Miss Trent is comfortably settled at a shoreresort, as well and happy as can be expected until mattersare settled.”

With a gesture John asks Holt to wait until he hasfinished his mail. Again takes up Dolores’ letter. Is unfoldingenclosure when Catherine, in street costume, enters. Sheshows amused surprise at Holt’s presence, but insists thathe remain when he attempts to leave.

She takes chair which John places for her. From herpurse produces a ticket which she offers for his inspection.

(Show—Transportation on Trans-Atlantic Blimp.)

At John’s surprise, Catherine offers plaintive explanation:

(Insert) “In two weeks I am going abroad as a sort ofmemorial to Jackie—to help mother the war orphansover there.”

John studies her coldly, taps forefinger on desk as replies:

(Insert) “Another of your trick trips! Well, Europe isnot far these days. A radiogram, a quick flight homeand better luck with your suit-for-absolute next time—perhaps.”

Catherine affects sadness at his suspicion. Droops towardhim over desk with reproachful, luring smile. Seems aboutto weep. Feels for ’kerchief. Drops eyelids. Is able toread Dolores’ envelope. Picks it up. Studies it. Sneers:

(Insert) “What a heart you have for wayward girls! Isthis a love letter or a dun?”

Ends interview with steady stare of suspicion at Holt,who stands nervously beside a window.

When Catherine has gone, John settles his own wonderon subject.

(Show in Dolores’ handwriting—“Soon a rosebud will openits petals to the world. I may not stay to care for it. Idepend on you.”)

John turns upon Holt. Without explaining, accuses himof perfidy. Holt departs, depressed by their danger ofexposure.

John calls a taxi. Drives at once to the Retreat. Isputting his query to the matron when Vincent Seff emergesfrom room marked “Private.” Mutual recognitions instant.Seff does the lofty philanthropic. In answer to John’s demandsclaims to know nothing of Miss Trent except thatduty forced him to eject her from Home the previous day.

Matron tries to proffer her information, but is cut shortby Seff, who assures her aside:

(Insert) “It is for the girl’s best good that we throw thisblood-hound off the scent. Trust my judgment.”

Matron retires from scene without giving address. Seff,with exaggerated courtesy draped over his triumph andsneers, shows John the door.

John drives at once to a detective agency. There, withhard-suppressed impatience, he retains them to find the girlhe had not known was lost. Suggests:

(Insert) “Comb all the taxi and express stands in thevicinity, grill the matron of the Retreat and shadowSeff.”

Scene shifts to hallway outside Dolores’ room. Agedlandlady emerges. Puts on spectacles. Reads advertisem*ntentrusted to her.

(On Screen in Dolores’ Handwriting)

Wasted

Unless you come to me at once.
979 East 17th Street.

Counts money given for its insertion. Departs kitchen-ward.Mutters:

(Insert) “Money’s a sure thing. This ad. ain’t. I owesomething to myself and sure, so does she.”

As days pass John is tortured by alternate hope and disappointment.Detectives make reports, but nothing comesof their search. He grows haggard and desperate.

Catherine comes again to office with an appeal to hispatriotism. Expresses herself as shocked by change in him.Gets generous check for her proposed philanthropy abroad.Suggests sarcastically:

(Insert) “Better join me in this sail overseas. With yourmoney and your sympathy for waywardness, you’d finda lot to do in demoralized Europe.”

John scorns even to refuse. Once outside office, Catherineseeks a telephone booth. Gets her own detective agency.Orders extra close watch on husband’s movements.

(On Screen)

THE SECOND TURN

At his club John finds himself distracted. Cannot listento conversation of friends. Seeks office. Over telephonegets the usual assurance from his detective that “something”is about to happen. Decides to wait at office. Looks atdesk calendar.

(Show—October 31, date of Dolores’ death.)

John paces floor through terrible night. Imagines formsof Amor and Innocentia pleading with him. Sees reproachfulface of Jack peering at him from the shadows. Cursespast weakness and present impotency.

The while, in bedroom at Cabot town-house, Catherinesleeps. Smiles like innocent child in her guilty dreams.

Dolores’ landlady arises from sound slumber. Goes abouther sordid tasks. Smells gas. Traces it. Airedale is onguard outside tenant’s door. Landlady entices him awaywith bit of meat from kitchen below. Breaks into room.Makes startling discovery. Mother and babe dead upon thebed. Her first thought after turning off gas is for meter.Reads it. Gets greatly excited.

In kitchen landlady retrieves Dolores’ advertisem*nt andmoney for payment. On consideration, decides that bestchance of getting bill paid by a dead tenant lies in possiblelive answer to the ad. Goes to Times office on belatederrand. Proffers “personal.”

(On Screen)

In this wise—and only one day late—the “Personal”of Dolores Trent appears.

In office of afternoon newspaper veiled ad. catches eyeof sub-editor.

(On Screen in Print)

Wasted

Unless you come to me at once.
979 East 17th Street.

Editor calls reporter, who goes to East Side address.

John emerges from club with copy of Times under arm.At curb buys copies of two other newspapers. As gets intolimousine, lets one—the Times—fall into mud.

(On Screen)

As usually happens, the “Personal” is not read bythe person for whom intended.

John glances at fallen paper regretfully. As cab starts,turns to financial pages of other paper.

Up street wind drives copy of Times. Blows it open.

(On Screen in Print)

Wasted

Unless you come to me at once.
979 East 17th Street.

Hoof of dray horse stamps out legibility of printed words.

(On Screen)

Well it is for the solving of mysteries that thepublic need not depend upon the mysterious waysof detective agencies.

Reporter finds East Seventeenth Street address. Frightenslandlady with questions about ad. Persuades her to lethim into Dolores’ room. Recognizes face of notorious girl.Emerges under thrill of a “beat.”

Rewrite man in evening newspaper office takes discoveryover telephone. Rattles sensational story through typewriterand composing room into print.

In another office an un-wise old “owl” of John’s detectiveagency gets start from headlines of latest edition.

(On Screen in Print)

Dolores Trent a Suicide
Goes to End by Gas
Takes Birthling for Company.

Agency chief shows himself capable of real speed afterthings have been detected for him. Makes for John’s office.Must prepare employer for shock, he declares. They havefound the girl, although dead. The address is John’s onlydemand. It is supplied without reference to newspaper. Hehastens there.

Pessimistic landlady will let none except authorities intobedroom until bills are paid.

(Insert) “It uses up a sight of gas to kill a woman grownand a healthy baby.”

John crushes green-backs into her hand and strides intoroom.

Upon bed lies dead girl.

(On Screen)

With backthrown silken hair her mourningveil, all smileless in death as she had beenthrough life, she clasps to her breast the clay ofhis child and hers, of whose existence a detectivehad told him. “Grief to Men” at last teaches oneman the acme of grief.

John bends over her. His lips move.

(Insert) “I have murdered what I love. Can you forgive?”

Sinks to knees beside bed. Lays face in her hair. Shuddersin agony of regret.

THE THIRD TURN

(On Screen)

The digit of death points back to the divorce caseof Cabot vs. Cabot.

In imposing room of Bar Association, Rufus Holt standstrial for his professional life. Is charged with having thrownthe first divorce case he ever lost. Faces of jury ofbrother lawyers grow contemptuous when prosecutor sumsup evidence against him—his visit to Judge Strang’s apartmentwith Cabot co-respondent, as reported by elevator man,later protectorate of girl and payment of her bills, as provedby florist and manager of up-town hotel, and continuedfriendship with John Cabot. Now suicide of girl and deathof infant conceived during period of sojourn in philanthropist’shome clinches case.

Holt to be formally disbarred. Is broken by disgrace anddenied friendship of man for whom he took risk. Leavestrial room.

(On Screen)

Mrs. Cabot finds a new use for “blimps.”

In her quarters at Cabot town-house, Catherine and maidare engaged in packing trunks. Two society friends announced.Shown into disordered suite. Ask questions. Isit true, as papers say, that Mrs. Cabot is going to make trans-Atlanticflight? Catherine gives laughing assurance:

(Insert) “I’ve always enjoyed being first, my dears. I guessI am first to fly from unpleasant notoriety. It will bea joy-ride, as my new lawyer is sure of winning myreopened suit.”

(On Screen)

DUST TO DUST

Beside grave of Trevor Trent, jovial digger finishes doubletask. Enters auto hearse, followed by single limousine. Johnsteps from car as coffin is lowered. Carries arm-load ofroses. Holds face emotionless. Tears off handful of rosepetals. Scatters them into grave. Lips move.

(Insert) “God teach me that nothing is wasted. God grantthat nothing is wasted.”

As he turns away, with last offices performed, is haltedand questioned by reporter who first published news ofDolores’ death. John at first refuses to answer. Showsdeep thought, then inspiration.

(Insert) “You may say that I am sailing for Europe inthe trans-Atlantic blimp. Yes, with Mrs. Cabot.”

Reporter stands astonished. Stares.

(On Screen)

That John Cabot deserves his reputation for shrewdnessis the news-hound’s thought. So that is hislatest scheme for protecting the name of the Trentgirl—to stop the possible reopening of his wife’s suitby flying abroad with her, Whether she wants himor not!

(Cut Back) Turtle appears. Protrudes head. Sees appealinghands. Withdraws head. Turns. Scuddles away.

CHAPTER XXIII

For minutes after the lights had flashed over The Devil’sOwn, the two in the royal box sat gazing at the flat silversurface so recently deep with the shadows and high-lightsof life as lived on Earth. Neither noticed that the deadsea of faces below was enlivened by recognition of the King’sfavorite before it ebbed away beneath the balcony. Neitherheard the swish of whispers that passed from wave to wave—gossipretailed from court, vilified innuendo, speculationover the Belialic intent in entertaining the lately arrived starof the piece with her death’s aftermath.

In truth, both host and guest were self-absorbed in emotionroused by the play, but emotion quite antipodal. His shavedface showed plainly his astonishment; worked with his darklingrage. Hers lifted roofward a glory that so outshonethe super-lighted dome as to suggest the far-distant sourceof that radiance which no Avernian device might dim.

“It was not what I expected—the picture,” Satan remarked,with ominous restraint. “The titling was good, butthe plot didn’t fit. The damned turn-turtle didn’t turn!”

Dolores was too charged with an inspired decision torealize his displeasure. She turned to him; stretched out herhand; touched his arm.

“You said you could put me in spiritual connection withthe women of Earth,” she reminded him. “Could you alsowith men—with John?”

“And why, pray, with John?”

The cruelty of the smile which had been so charmingawhile back should have warned her, but she must havebeen blinded by that light from within.

“Didn’t you see how he suffered from self-reproach?Don’t you realize that he still is suffering?” She sighed inher voice of sad winds. “Surely you gathered from the picturethat all those age-long minutes of the time I died fromdoubt, he still loved me—that he loves me now? I wantto implore his forgiveness.”

Her smile, timid from its rarity, strained to disappear,although she tried to hold it.

“I’ve done my best to please you,” she wheedled nervously.“Won’t you do this for me—just free my spirit for oneshort hour by the time of Earth?”

“So! You’d rather go back to that puny mortal than onand on—with me?”

“Oh, but I’ll come back, and go on and on so cheerfully!I give you my word,” she assured him. “I’ll do everythingI can for you. Just grant me the hour. It’s not the fractionof a second to you. You say that you never have caredfor anyone. Yet you boast of your imagination. Can’t youimagine what it is really to care? Won’t you even try?”

“I might do that.” He eyed her. “I might try.”

All the drive home his manner was detached. He did notrepulse her gratitude for his grudging consideration of herrequest. Neither did he explain that he was trying toimagine what “caring” would be like—but trying throughjealousy, its crudest mood.

“I will tell you—well, afterward,” he said, on bidding her“sleep light” within Apollyon Palace.

“After what?”—she.

“That I don’t know myself as yet,” he snapped.

Afterward—if only we could know the afterward before!

She slept light. And through the next day her regretincreased that she had not dared his wrath and demandeda definite period to her suspense. Feelings unwontedly rebelliousfilled her that she must wait to know—rather, thatJohn must wait.

Over the babe—their babe—she crooned her hope. ToAdeline she whispered her apprehension. Something in thehard, planning look of the unfair fiend, in his superiority toany attempt at cleverness, in his abstraction even while listeningto compliments over his driving——

When was afterward?

Satan, too, asked himself questions through that day.

A far busier leader than any king or president of Earth,since he had the evil of all nations to direct, he yet foundtime from his activities to remember the boomerang blow tohimself of last night’s “show.”

His chamber of state glowed as with St. Elmo’s fire, whilehe lightning-flashed his orders through infinity, defying the“static” of Earth and Heaven and the void between. Piteouslyhe drove his Minions of Malice toward the consummationof crimes unique or foul enough to merit his supervision.No measurement exists to compute the watts ofenergy required to transmit the royal will in this orgy ofaction. But what did he care that the Gehennan sun wasdimmed by the draught until it looked a mere balloon?

As the artificial daylight went into eclipse, greener grewthe color of the Satanic mood—a hard green, mixed fromthe yellow of chagrin and the blue-black of rage. He feltas mean as a son-in-law. It did not help in the slightest tohave Old Original commiserate him on the projection of apicture which had shown his rival running true; no more didthat unworthy’s impious request that he be appointed royalpreviewer of all future films. Even the minister’s reporton the entire success of a particularly contemptible politicalcoup which he had devised for the postponement of thatgood will toward men threatened in the “Little Book” didnot long divert him.

At length, consigning the rest of the day’s deviltry tovarious fiend aides, the Author of Evil forced his mind toconcentrate on the vital question evolved from last night.How best might mortal pusillanimity be revealed to therose-goggled eyes of true love?

Through the mood which he had been suffering since thefiasco of his “evening out,” he recognized violent tendencieswithin himself which made him feel, more than ever before,his power to devise and inflict suffering. In this case, however,violence would not do; would destroy what he wishedto create. With meticulous delicacy he must handle thismind feminine if he hoped to pluck therefrom its dearestidealization.

What can the heart of woman not forgive? He askedhimself and considered, one by one, many answers.

“I never could forgive infidelity!”

At that loudest and oftenest cry of the wives of the worldthe malignant lips curled. “Never?” Yet most did forgivewho found it advisable so to do.

“Liquor? I couldn’t endure that kind of a beast.”

But which martyr-wife exchanged her drunken lord exceptfor a better fate?

“Dishonesty? I wouldn’t live with a man I didn’t respect.”

Wouldn’t she? Then why were the jail-gates draped withweeping faces and stretching arms—why the late-life effortsto “live it down” of the work-wasted woman and the husbandwho had served out his time?

Never? Couldn’t? Wouldn’t? What the heart of womancannot forgive is what she has not been called upon to forgive.The libertine’s lady might just as well have learnedto endure shame through ebriety, the drunkard’s dupethrough lechery.

What type of man, then, does the mind of woman mostdespise? A villain? Scarcely, when the worst are lovedthe best. A traitor, a weakling, a failure? For the lowestof these, pardons are plead. Upon them, regenerating loveis poured. What—what to her is the sin unpardonable?

With eyes closed against possible distractions, Satan rough-shadowedthe suspects of his thoughts. And just whenhis mind seemed emptied of ideas, he had it.

Of course. Of course. A caught coward was what shecould not forgive, woman. He would star one earthling forbenefit of his spirit-mate in a play of cowardice. “Afterward”?After he was through, she scarcely would press herrequest.

From their Limbian “Information” he inquired the nameof the personal devil of John Cabot. Upon learning that animp named Okeh attended the banker, he demanded instantconnection by wireless telephone. This he got with a promptnessthat might be commended to the attention of mortalsystematizers.

“That you, Okeh?” he asked. “I hear that you’re responsiblefor the evil impulses of a Mr. John Calvin Cabot....You speak as if you were proud of the fact. You needn’tbe.... What say?... But I have a perfectly badright to insult you.... A chance at me is just whatI’m going to give you—a chance to prove your efficiency. Iwant the Cabot program for the immediate future. Quick,now. I am not used to waiting.”

Amid sulphuric anathemas at his informant, Satan notedthe report. Sailing for Europe in half an hour on a trans-Atlanticair-liner, was he? And enemy wife, all unknowingas yet, was blimping it along? In the old nick of time, asusual, was he to wish the undevoted couple mal voyage.So the Marquis d’Elie, too, was to be on board? Afterall, the “Turn Turtle” must think more of the Trent girl’sbattered reputation than of his own pleasure.

If the big blimp was to sail in a few minutes, what wasMr. Cabot doing in the morasses of Brooklyn, only half wayto the flying field? The agate-eyed personal devil was readywith explanations. The gentleman’s wife was reopening asuit for divorce on the strength of an illegitimate child whomcirc*mstantial evidence proved to be his. The air trip wasto celebrate all but the actual verdict in her favor. Cabot hadstarted late that he might board at the last moment, therebygiving her an unhappy surprise. His car unfortunately hadrun into a jam around an open-air evangelist—a sensationalreligionist who was enthralling crowds everywhere, the Rev.Dr. Alexander Willard by name.

Scarcely could Satan restrain his risibilities. What acontretemps! Here was the deposed divine, forced to theFree Church of Outdoors by the siren Grief, with his eloquencedelaying her last victim’s flight from the scandal shehad brought upon him. How delightfully diabolic!

For sake of his own recent experiment at popularizing theonce tedious sermon, His Augustness had Okeh short-mouthfor him certain of “Nimrod’s” shots.

“I used to hunt birds and beasts. Now I hunt the heartsof men. God is my guide, Hallelujah! So what care Ithat I am shut out from the temples of those who call themselvesthe righteous? The world is too small a church forme. Through the tall timbers of humanity I hunt immortalsouls. Look out for me, you quaking quail of a woman!Look out for me, you running rabbit of a man! You can’tescape me through the underbrush of your hypocrisy. Idon’t miss, once I take aim. Hallelujah, I am gunning foryou!”

Lest the imp mistake his dishonest amusem*nt, Satan cutoff the report. “Enough of that irreverent stuff. Listencarefully now to instructions from the First and Last. Thatliner likely will wait for a man of Cabot’s importance. Seethat you get aboard with him. You’re to closer-than-a-brotherhim through an opportunity for inciting cowardicewhich will present itself. While he sleeps insinuate intohis mind a terror of death by falling and by drowning.Strengthen his primal appetence of self-protection. Thisis the last chance you get with me. If you fail to make anarrant coward of this man you’ll find yourself out of adeviling job for death. I am busy now, as you’d better be.A bad afternoon to you!”

The Regent of Reversals was “on terms” with the elements,as with all forces for evil through good. On hearingthat calm had been planned for the high-seas, he discardedthe idea of a marine storm.

Always had his worst results been obtained through naturalcauses. Indeed, he had come to pride himself that nocause was too natural for him. Particularly did he dislike,for reasons of his own, to interfere with a rainbow, it beinga symbol to him that the Earth would not be destroyed bywater. Since he had only fire as a weapon he would be in abad fix if the coup ultimate should be sprung upon him withwater power. Of course, the coup wasn’t to be sprung,not if he could forestall it, but even yet he was wrackedby unrighteous rage every time he recalled Noah’s Flood.That time, he had been about as powerful as a case of dynamite—soaked.One decent thing about the Great-I-Am wasthat He never forgot a promise. One could count upona rainbow, once one saw it. And Satan was “counting.”

Upon the single great indestructible under his control hemust depend to vary the monotony of a placid sea. Neverhad the three single-eyed Cyclopeans of mythology failed toserve his purposes. Lightning Flash, Thunderbolt andRolling Thunder would advance his scheme.

Motivation and “natural causes” arranged, he sent a peremptorysummons for the Prime Minister and to him detailedinstructions in the duties of a proxy escort. An hour beforedawn Sin was to awaken the Royal Entertainer and conducther straightway to the stadium of the Ball of Life. That“best bubble” of infernal invention was to entertain her bypicturing some interesting Earth events as they occurred.

“I shall not fail Your Damnity,” the old toady assuredhim.

“Better not,” was all Satan said as he finger-flashed hisFirst Emissary of Evil out the royal suite.

His Master Crier was called; told to issue a general invitationto the forthcoming spectacle; warned that the stadiummust be filled to its last seat, despite the unconventionalhour. Not until this sop to his vanity had been applied,did His Lowness close the “office” and himself depart.

With the failure of his past-tense picture-play in mind,he betook himself to the stadium and preparations for thisgreatest and latest show under Earth. There must be nomiscues about a performance upon which depended thesuccess of that “experiment” inspired by Dolores’ earth-talesof joys, as well as griefs to men. He would make his owntests of the complicated apparatus, although the plant hadnot failed him since installation.

To establish that the Ball of Life functioned properlywas his first concern. Giving it a turn, he watched thereflector pool for shadows. When the shimmering prismsof the mercury-like pond had been quieted, he was rewardedby an intimate look at a naval review somewhere on theChina Sea, within focus of which the overhung ball hadchanced to stop.

The finder he next put to test. This instrument, of graduatedtubes like those of a monster telescope, controlled thelenses of the all-seeing ball. At will, he caused it to pickup this scene and that, finally locating the dirigible whichwas to be the central figure of the forthcoming event, as ittossed on waves of air above the Atlantic.

Closer attention did he give to the aurograph, a practicabledevice worked out to supplement the spectroscope, whichcombined on an enormous scale the principles of the radio-telephoneand the phonograph. Back of the stadium, wellout of way of the suspended ball, the antennæ—an elaboratenetwork of wires—were suspended by metal-like balloons.These were insulated from Gehenna, except for the centralconverging wires, which led to multi-power generators.Upon a huge sounding board were the messages received,thence communicated to the stadium by annunciators. Thetuning of this masterpiece of etheric control occasionedSatan some concern, but finally was accomplished to hissatisfaction.

Back on the control platform, surrounded by his technicalchiefs, His Highness watched the stadium fill. As the appointedhour approached, he ran up the green walls whichsurrounded the terraced seats and from the pool flashed anorder that all spectators adjust the small dynamos of theeye-shades with which they were provided on entering. Hewished none to fail to see to the end the abasem*nt ofJohn Cabot.

A moment he hesitated, then took up the telephone connectedwith the royal box. The lackadaisical voice of OldOriginal responded.

“Dame Dolores in her place?”

On being assured of that important fact, he turned to theMaster Mechanic.

“Step on the music!”

Upon all ears burst an orchestration, The Song of theSea. As surely did they hear it as though it had beencarried hellward by the wind through shells, crevasses andmetallic splinters. As by lutes and æeolean harps it wasplayed, with crashes and staccato rumblings for bass.

The drama of mortal cowardice, destined to turn intocontempt a too-long-lasting love, was on.

CHAPTER XXIV

Day lifts from her couch of mists to awaken betimesthe Sea, her slumbering lord.

Last evening he had ordered her from his presence, asusual ashamed that she should witness his embrace of thatmistress of his passions, Night, who incites him to theblackest of his crimes. Yet this morning she tiptoes down tohis vast chamber, pale and sleepy-eyed in her diaphanouspeignoir, there to hover over him, eager and fearful to givethe early call.

Will he arise blustering, splash about in his bath andgrowl forenoon complaints at her until she can no longersmile—until she further angers him with tears? Or willhis mood be equable? Will he respond to her sunny smilesand the sweet-zephyred nothings which she best knows towhisper in his ear?

Amiable enough he looks. But then, amiability usuallycharacterizes the sleep of his billowy sort of spouse. Subconsciouslyhe must have heard her step, for he sighs, tossesrestlessly and flings up shapeless arms as though to enfoldher.

Forgiveness flushes Day’s cheeks, her finger-tips, herdainty toes. Forgiveness is the power by which, throughthe blisses and tribulations of æons of their marital state,she has remained his dearest love and inspiration. It haskept her face fresh as when, in their infancy, the GreatMinister made them one. It has enabled her to forget hisbrutalities of yesterday in the hope of kindness to-day.

Never comes a morn without much for them to do. Forhim there are ships to be tided from shore to shore, flyingthings of the air to be cradled when in need of rest, myriadsof monsters and minnows to be fed, shells, pearls andcorals to fashion in his spare time. And she never restsfrom dawn to dark in her effort to keep the sky clear thatshe may smile something of her own vitality into all livingthings under her eye, be they fishes of the sea, fowl of theair, or man from the various islands which so irritate herirascible consort.

All looks well for her now, unless——

An over-shoulder glance she casts about the horizon.There is an ominous look over there, a somewhat darkerspeck against the banks of gray. Are her archest enemies,the trio of fire-eyed Cyclops, planning interference with themercies of her upper air?

No matter what portends, she must awaken her lord.Usually he scowls for hours should she be late about hiscall. Forcing a smile, she droops over him until, with bride-likeardor, she kisses him on the lips. A moment his wateryeyes gaze into hers. Then he gulps from pleasure at thedesirable sight of her; lurches toward her; makes a clutchat her scant draperies.

But not for a moment does she allow herself to be caughtto his moist, palpitant breast. Something immediate demandsher attention. She makes excuse—a monster beetlewithout wings then appearing from the direction of land.With sweet-soft adjurations that her lazy old Sea fall notagain into a doze, she hurries to meet and greet the gleamingthing.

Nothing had Dolores seen of the dirigibles of Earth, savefar-up glimpses of those which occasionally passed over herNew York. Now, with amaze, she noted the proportions ofthe air-liner which had intruded into the reflection of dawnat sea. In the wan light, it looked to surpass the largestocean steamship she had seen and held its course steadily,as though its blunt nose were cleaving waves of water,rather than of atmosphere. Through the slow rise of thesun an idea of its speed was given.

Silver-jacketed it was, cigar-shaped and massively concreteon its atmospheric track. Her credulity was taxed,however, to realize that this at which she gazed was no vision,such as that dreamed by Kipling in “The Night Mail,” but ascene of the moment in the mortal world. Actual as thoughshe were watching from some anchored ship nearby werethe colors of the wingless beetle and the very vaguest tintsof water and sky.

As the aluminum-painted envelope seemed about to passfrom sight across the rim of the prismatic pool, some shiftof the reflecting machinery refound it and gave a closerview. The deck was shown, studded with cabins and protectedby shields of glass. Although lacking the width ofthe modern ocean vessel, it was comfortably roomy, to judgeby the steamer chairs being placed about for late-sleepingpassengers. As an assurance that this was no cinematographpicture, the sailor figures engaged did not move about withthe artificial speed which so often discounts the realism ofthe film, but with that deliberation and casualness peculiarto the life which is realer than “reel.”

“Some jump from the day when they flew wooden kitesover oil engines, isn’t it?”

At Sin’s question, the girl-shade glanced around into thatmap of malignity, his face. “Too wonderful almost to believe.In the air, truly, a man must feel like the monarch ofall he surveys.”

“Untruly, he thinks he is.”

The interruption came from behind. Turning, they sawthat His Majesty had entered the box. His frown suggestednerve tension, rather than ill temper. His voice was oiledwith triumph over the demonstration of his most uniqueinvention. Nevertheless the accented word of his commentaroused in Dolores the uneasiness which had kept pacewith them through his personally-conducted tour of GreaterGehenna.

Directly on seating himself, he reached for the telephone.“Don’t waste all day on scenics. This is no travelogue. Getto the interiors!”

Tapping the box-rail so impatiently that sulphurous spotsglowed from the points of contact, he watched the pool.Dolores and the iniquitous escort on her other side awaitedwith interest the result of his command.

Soon they were viewing a luxuriously appointed stateroom.The full-length brass bedstead was occupied by asleeping man. His up-thrown, silk-clad arm concealed thelower part of his face, but his forehead and back-tossedhair showed clearly.

“John!” The muffled exclamation escaped the girl-shade,half a sob, half a croon of joy.

A vaguer male figure became discernible, seated near thehead of the bed. Leaning over the pillow, he whispered tothe man. Although his outlines developed somewhat to thegaze, he continued to lack the clarity of other objects aboutthe cabin; impressed one more as a creature of the spiritthan the flesh.

The sleeper seemed to feel this insinuating presence. Heturned as if in troubled dreams; covered his ears with hishands; drew away so stressfully that his head bumped abedpost. He awakened; dazedly looked about; glanced athis watch; decided to arise.

This evidently was a prefatory scene. There ensued aninterval which Satan occupied with issuing detailed ordersfor the further manipulation of the great reflector. Whenthe over-grown “blimp” again was mirrored in the pool, thelapse of time at once was manifest. Several passengerspaced the deck and below breakfast was underway. In thelee of one of the cabins, a woman, richly clad in furs, wasbeing tucked into her chair by a fur-coated man wearing aplaid cap.

“D’Elie still with Catherine!” exclaimed Dolores withresentment.

“And with John Cabot aboard. My latest in the infernaltriangle,” His Highness pointed pridefully. “Note that theyhave foregone all pretense of the love-making that used toengage them, these two who are agreed to exchange a titlefor a dot when husband sees fit to dot the matrimonialdash.”

Distress widened the spirit-girl’s eyes. “But the sanctityof marriage—have they never a thought for that?”

“The sanctity of what?” He leered at Sin. “Our ladyof many griefs to men to remind us of that! May she neverlose her knack of amusing us!” He eyed her with anaffectation of old-school sanctimony. “Alack, my poor child,the sanctity of marriage ain’t! And even if it were, thesetwo wouldn’t wish their future relationship hampered bysuch an obsolete notion. He looks to be gassing about thegas of the dirigible, from the way he’s pointing above theirheads. Manlike, he probably is trying to excite her admirationfor his knowledge of how it is filled with helium containedin bags of gold-beater’s skin. Helium, permit me toinform you, is an idea that earthlings borrowed from theSun. It is supposed to be an incombustible gas. Noticethat the French bounder is smoking an after-breakfastcigar.”

“And is it really safe?” Anxiety quickened Dolores’voice.

“Really? Hast never been struck by the comparativenessof reality? Nothing is really real except eternal life andthat doesn’t even sound real.”

Certainly Satan knew the value of pause. In silence hewatched with them the shift of scene to where John Cabot,alone as a celebrity can be in a crowd of sycophantic fellowpassengers, paced the deck. With John’s eyes, their ownlifted to the air-liner’s Milky Way toward Europe, wherea bank of clouds darkened the course.

“Now for something doing”—Sin to Dolores. “Take abet with me. Will they beat the storm or the storm beatthem?”

She, however, was intent on a repeated question: “Youare sure, Your Lowness, that they are safe in trusting tohelium?”

“It is safe to say that they think they are.”

His reply was abstracted. After searching the sceneintently, he turned again to the telephone. “I have keen long-distanceeyes, trained to pierce the Plutonian shore, but Ican’t see a blur of that imp Okeh. I must wireless him areminder of where personal devils go that get too impersonal.”

He spared an apology to Dolores. “Don’t be hurt if Ilook a bit absent-minded at times. You are so unselfishthat you won’t, I am sure, when you remember how muchother, if less fair, fiends, often need an inspiriting thoughtfrom me.”

As the pilot drove the great dirigible straight at the sky-scowlcontesting its right-of-way, the winds hurled at itbank after bank of inky clouds. Huddled against the blastsbehind the forward wind glass, the fifty or more passengersshowed with as many variations their heirship to the flesh.The beautiful Mrs. Cabot could be seen loosing the holdon her arm of her French suitor and staggering across thedeck to where her husband stood apart. Despite his concernedlook, he tried to reassure her. All showed reliefwhen the captain appeared among them, his little daughterby the hand, and laughed at the idea of danger. His gesturespointed the fact that the storm was passing well over theirtrig craft.

“Confident little monarchs of the air, eh?”

Satan’s chuckle announced that his attention, too, was onthe pool play. Before Dolores could formulate the pleacommanded by her fears, he returned to the telephone witha curt command that increased her uneasiness.

“Now, Cyclops, blast them with a look! Strike at theheart of their conceit. Show them the noncombustibility ofhelium. Punish them for flaunting the control of the Princeof the Power of the Air! Strike—strike!”

He lurched back to the rail; with the interested ministerand the dismayed girl-shade, leaned far out that he mightmiss no resultant detail of the electric storm due. Andstraightway, from out the tumbled mass of blackness flasheda three-forked streak of light. Directly at the great gasbag it struck; with each prong of the fork pierced the gold-beater’sskin. Next second, from three of the separatedsafety compartments, fluttered fiery flags.

Wounded, the great beetle strove on against the odds offlames licking its envelope body with avid tongues. Soonthe captain realized the futility of any race against timealong the unmarked course of the upper air. The powerfulengines stopped. The propellers ceased to revolve. Theliner wavered in mid-air, as shown when the streamers ofsmoke ceased to trail out behind and gradually straightenedtoward the cloud bank.

No slightest move was made to fight the fire above. Evidentlyan order to abandon ship had been passed. Officersand crew busied themselves with such life-saving apparatusas had been provided against so unlikely a contingency.Gas was turned into the baby blimps carried by the dirigiblein lieu of life-boats. Outward they were swung.

On deck the hapless humans could be seen strugglingtoward posts of vantage, fighting back their dearest andbest, forgetting to pray in the panic of this conflagration athousand feet above the comparative safety of the sea. Arefractory engine might have been coped with. An explosionof the hydrogen gas used in earlier ships of air would havebeen understood and the worst been over in one fatal blast.But this slow, gruesome bonfire of the helium on whichthey had relied, these æon-long minutes jeopardizing theprimal, inalienable right——

The deck was beginning to sag. Two of the aërial life-boatshad been swung downward and loaded with women andthe ship’s only listed child—the captain’s motherless daughter.Like bubbles, they were given to the mercies of the air.

The observation spread that there would not be room inthe basket of the last baby-blimp for all who remained. Anunder-officer started to pass out the suits which were parachutesand life-preservers combined—suits calculated to lowerone through a quarter-mile of atmosphere and provide supportupon the surface of the sea.

Came realization that there were not enough of the parachutesto go around. Self-first madness gained control. Abattle for possession of the safety devices began.

The spirit-girl, watching this spectacle from the perspectiveof Gehenna, grew faint.

“Oh, I can’t endure to look a moment more!”

Shuddering, she sank back from sight of the catastrophe.But she felt the hands torn from her eyes and heard a sword-sharpcommand.

“Can’t? You’ve got to look to the end!”

The ferocity with which His Highness forced her to therail ended in an anticipatory chuckle as he saw that thefocus of the incredible reflectors had narrowed upon theimperiled passengers.

There was Catherine Cabot, already equipped with a parachute,crowding forward to board the last of the blimp-boats.There was the Marquis d’Elie, checked in his regardlessstruggle for a life-preserver and restrained in the grip of acouple of sailors by the captain’s orders. And there wasJohn Cabot, standing to one side, calmer than the rest,despite the dread realization on his face of the fact that therewould not be escape for all.

A place had been saved for Catherine in the boat. Shedid not need the parachute suit. John saw and his faceshowed inner contention. If he was to stand back fromthe boat, should he not have the chance of that superfluouslife-preserver? A moment longer he stood irresolute, confusedlybrushing a hand across his forehead. As if to shutout some sinister suggestion, he turned up his ulster collar.

Perhaps the super-acute imaginations of the spirit audiencesurpassed sight. Perhaps they actually saw an evil facelean to the ear of the mortal and heard the voice of themillionaire’s own of the personal devils that improve suchmoments to incite the worst in everyman.

John’s attempt to deny the disputation of fear and selfishness,although brief in point of time, was intense. Whilestill in the throes he saw that another had noted Catherine’sdouble protection.

The Marquis d’Elie, abandoned by his guards, was rushingtoward her, his object plain. His jaw hung lax as hereached and importuned her. His knees near failed him inthe struggle to take the parachute by force.

And Catherine? With all her strength she fought off theabject beggar who so recently had played the nobleman.Yet when, as almost he had conquered her, she saw her husbandbearing down upon them, a retroactive impulse controlledher. So John, too, was after the saving suit? If shemust give up the second chance of life, which she hadmeant to hold in reserve, it should not be to John!

When the banker engaged d’Elie, she allied herself withthe defense. No breath of the ignited helium was morefiery than the invective she spat at him who so long hadsupplied her with the luxuries of life.

When she saw that his strength was likely to worst thetwo of them, she suddenly drew out of the struggle andherself unfastened the contested parachute. As d’Elie wasflung aside, she flung it to him. Turning swiftly, she thenthrew herself upon her husband and begged that he assisther into the overloaded baby-blimp, about to be cut away.Herself safe, she saw his attempt to follow forcibly preventedby the pilot and shrieked with mirthless spite. Itwould seem that in this hour when all loves were crowdedout save that of self, hate was well remembered.

“Now watch the Cabot coward!”

His Majesty’s sharp suggestion stabbed the spirit-girl’sheart. She tried to turn from a sadder sight than the aircraft’s consumption—the burning to ashes of her fondestideal. Yet she might not turn; might not close her eyes.A control stronger than her own aversion was upon her.In trying not to look, she realized that she must look untilthe end.

The loudening laughter of the vast audience deadened herconsciousness; seemed to be at her, rather than the spectaclethat so diverted them. She sought to fortify herself. Whatthough John did turn coward? The flesh was heir to thefear of death. At each apologetic thought, the mirth of thehelliot crowd crackled louder. What could be happeningon the doomed craft so to delight them? With a dreadfor the spiritual debasem*nt of her loved one of Earthgreater than had been her own dread of physical death, shelooked and looked.

The baby-blimp of last resource was lowering toward thedoubtful safety of the surface of the sea. The pilot stood onthe bridge, idle for the first time since the gas-bag hadbeen struck. Evidently he expected to go down with hisship as had so many captains before him. John Cabot clungto the deck rail as if contemplating a suicidal plunge. Forward,the Marquis d’Elie stood equipped with the parachutesuit won by Catherine’s trick, but a lack of trust in it seemedto restrain him from the life-leap.

Too long he hesitated. John Cabot, maddened anew bysight of the Frenchman’s superior chance, leaped the spacebetween them; from behind dragged him down on the blisteringdeck. There followed a brief struggle—an exchange ofattacks, a roll en masse and the separation of a knock-outblow from John. As his fingers loosened the last buckle ofthe safety suit, the craft gave a violent lurch. The foreigner’sunconscious form, far heavier than air, was flungover the rail to a drop from which there could be noawakening.

As the air-liner straightened for the last time, John Cabotreleased the clutch that by a narrow margin had saved himfrom following d’Elie and got to his feet. A glance at theblazing bag above, their one support, convinced him thatseconds were precious. His eyes, however, lowering, metthe level, contemptuous gaze of the pilot.

The soul of Dolores shuddered with shame for the manshe would have sworn to be brave. Then awoke in her thatmothering, protective instinct which lives in women longafter pride has been crucified. There still might be timeto save John against himself. Remembrance of her ownreluctance to turn on the jets that last evening on earthfilled her heart with mercy. She would risk appeal to theMaster Mind.

“I am sickened with this spectacle, sire. Human nature isstrong, but not so strong as you. Show your power bythrottling this Okeh devil and conquering the mortal’s mood.Come, I challenge you!”

When she turned to enforce the argument, she saw thatHis Highness had not heard. The visible of him waslurched back in his seat, enraged determination on the face,lips set in a snarl, fiend fingers clutching the high forehead.But that which had made him Prince of the Power of theAir—his dauntless determination—had gone from him.

Dolores did not need to be told what had happened. Impatientlest John Cabot’s personal devil should fail, Satanhad projected his own spirit to take in charge the mortal’sfall. His will, not John’s, had incited that struggle for thelife-suit. He would accomplish his worst. The convictionmoved her mouth in a suppressed sob. Drawn by theghoulish fascination that makes earthlings cling to the clayof their dead, she clung to the balustrade and strained hereyes toward the pool.

Death is the mortgage on life. John Cabot’s revolt againstpayment showed in his face. Craven impulses clutched him.At his ear were the lips of the Master Insinuator. Facilefingers seemed to aid his with the parachute buckles. Yethe had seen himself in the pilot’s contempt. He was puttingup a fight. His life-long habit of self-respect was strong.The pilot was father to a motherless child—a girl. He shouldbe saved.

With the Thing which had attacked him—the fiend calledFear—John grappled. His knees shook, his jaw sagged, hiseyes bulged from the fetid suggestions which, evidently, weregassing his will. If the pilot went down with the air-craft,he never could tell.

Dolores, too, shook with fear. She knew what John didnot know—just who was opposing him. Indignation overthe unequal struggle steadied her; cleared her thoughts.Why was all the power given to sin and none to rightness?By what method had the Foul Fiend projected his spirit toEarth to slay the courage of the man she would havesuffered any death to save? Surely, what could be donefor evil purposes could be done for good! Why was willgiven to woman if not to augment the will of man—whyher mite of strength if not to incite greater strength? Johnneeded her.

From fear lest he fail was born determination that hewin. He was a good and great man, John Cabot. He hadlived aright and deserved so to die. The hate of Hell wasnot stronger than the love of her heart. What The Destroyerhad done, she—John’s savior—also must do.

Moved beyond realization of the spaces between them,Dolores sprang to her feet and sounded into the upper spacesthe vibrant chord of inspiration:

“John, be love-worthy!”

Regardless of the astonished stares directed her way, shesaw in the mercurized pool that he bent his head as if listening—thathis lips moved. She seized the telephone whichSatan had used in communicating with the control platform.To the voice that answered she commanded:

“Get a record of what he said—I must know what hesaid!”

Lifted out of herself by her success, she leaned over thebalustrade and willed that he should win.

And as she waited the battle on deck was fought to itsfinish. Self-mastered, John brushed from his ears the insinuationsthat had tempted him; controlled the fingers fumblingwith the buckles; turned back the feet struggling towardthe rail.

As the helium from the last compartments waved skywardthe flames of the dirigible’s final support, he stripped offthe life-saving jacket and forced it upon the pilot. Hisinsistence clearly was in the name of that girl-child whowould be orphaned should her father desert her for a scruple.He urged his protesting fellow-human to the rail; helped himover-side. In magnificent calm he watched the silken foldsof the parachute spread open under their burden and begina gentle, oceanward descent.

As the gas bag disintegrated, bits of burning embersbecame detached and dropped like spent rockets to the waves.John Cabot, left alone on the deck, stood ready for the end.

The while, his last utterance, demanded by her who hadinspired him, was given to the vast throng through theannunciators connected with the master telephonograph.Deep, strong, triumphant, its first syllable silenced the orchestralSong of the Sea. A cry of victory, it shamed demonlaughter and tortured the souls of the lost with regrets overthe god-great powers they might have come to wield hadthey but won their fights. A requiem that rang throughthe crusts of two worlds was its single word:

“Dolores!”

Exactly how she made her descent from the royal box andreached the edge of the pool, the girl-shade never knew.The sound of John’s voice had moved her with but onewish—to join him.

He had, then, heard her cry—had answered her! So nearhe seemed to her that she could not endure to be so farfrom him.

Aspen-eager, she leaned far over the edge of the greatbowl that held the mercury. But all she saw was the reflectionof her own face. The dirigible must have gone sputteringinto the sea while she was making her descent. Herlover must have met his mortal fate. The pool had finishedits story.

So compelling had been the realism of its reflected scenesthat she still was controlled by the emotion they had aroused.She felt lured almost beyond the strength of her intelligenceto throw herself into the brilliant depths—to be clasped asshe might have been in that realer sea in beloved arms. Solow she bent that her whisper rippled the surface.

“John ... John.”

A satirical voice, even more than the clutch of withered,hands drew her back to the now of Gehenna. The ministerhad followed her and was blinking at her, a trace of responsibilitymapped on the parchment of his face.

“Another second and Sin himself couldn’t have saved youto Hell,” he exclaimed. “Don’t you know that this swimmingpool is bottomless? Are you trying to hang one ofthose griefs of yours on me?”

His reproach was a revelation to the girl. Even OldOriginal! Never, perhaps, had she felt more puzzled tomeet overture of male. But she was spared reply. Theaggressiveness slackened from his form. A look of craftwiped the reproach from his face. He stepped behind her.

Explanation came in the approach of The Tempter.His spirit, then, had returned from its projection to Earthto the shell of him left in the box. Impulsively she hurriedto meet him. She had no consideration to spare for hischagrin over having failed in his personal attempt. Tooexalted in pride was she to give thought to the effect onhim of pride’s fall. Forward she stretched both hands, asif for the congratulation of a friend.

“That favor I asked of you—I’ve granted it myself!” sheexclaimed. “There is no need for me to go to him. He willcome now to me.”

She felt her fingers caught in a cruel grasp. Her joy-dewedglance was scorched by his malevolence.

Back drew the sneering lips over white, fang-like teeth.“You really think he’ll draw a ticket down here—that hero?Fool, you have too much faith in the judgments of men!”

With repression more ominous than any outburst couldhave been, he turned on his heel.

“Come home,” he said.

As has so many a submissive woman soul before her,Dolores tried to hide within her heart her blissful expectation.But she trod on air as she followed out of the stadium.

Splendidly John had gone through the formality of liftingthe mortgage contracted at his birth—that debt of life putupon all, which may be paid only in the coinage of death.

Soon, now, he would come to her.

CHAPTER XXV

It was “afterward.” There could be no doubt of that.His Highness, so far as Dolores was concerned, had retiredinto one of his silences. He must be enraged with her forher interference in the pool play. But for what could hebe waiting?

True, the concession for which she had offered to payany price was no longer an issue. There was no need nowfor her to be put in spirit connection with Earth, even hadshe not discovered that her own concentrated will couldaccomplish the projection—that the dead might return totheir quondam surroundings, ruling and being ruled throughsenses stronger far than physical. Could she sooner haverealized this of the strange laws which governed her presentstate of existence, what heart-hurts of foreboding and regretshe might have spared John and herself!

Not for an hour of the days and nights since the failureof that “Greatest Show” had she forgotten that the timeset for her own answer as to her fate was approaching. Onthis afternoon—the sixth of those allotted “seven days ofdisgrace”—she felt herself no nearer decision than beforethe end of her séances.

She tried not to dread. Dread shriveled the soul; wouldmar her progress. And she was determined now to progress,despite her sentence to Gehenna. Hope was the immortalsoul of love. Once John had joined her, no law of the lowlandscould kill their hope.

So the girl-shade was happy in her deplorable state as shenever had been happy when the gateway of the mortal worldhad opened to her youthful tread. He whom she loved lovedher. That was the lyric of her song of the soul. Deep-chordinginto the accompaniment was her absolute knowledgeof his worthiness. Expectancy played a running obbligatothrough each measure, with here and there a trill oferrant joy. He was coming, John; must by now be nearingthe end of that long, drear journey from Earth to ShadowLand.

Every hour helped now. From far away, whispers of thealtruistic philosophy she had taught young Jack Cabot penetratedher moods. How better prepare for the eventualitiesof to-morrow than by good cheer to-day? Since all theto-morrows must come disguised as to-days, she would makethe best of the here and now.

A bit advanced were such ideas for the shell-pink ear ofher infant, yet to the wee-shade she murmured them thislate afternoon while out for a stroll. Although Adelineaccompanied her, she herself carried the spirit-child to savethe maid’s pride.

Their practice had been to take their evening walksthrough the Garden of Bad Luck. To-day, for the firsttime Dolores chose the Avenue of Locusts, which led fromthe palace direct to the Limbian Gates. The ex-great ladyprotested against walking beside her mistress, even whenordered to do so, on the plea that she must work out herterm of degradation. The young mother’s hopeful adjurationsto the instinct-fretted babe seemed only to increase herbitterness.

How could m’lady benefit, Adeline demanded in French,even though her lover did come through the gates that eventide?Her own husband’s pretense to care for her was onlythe last-lingering impulse of self-protection. He was assumingthe virtue of constancy though he had it not. Buthe would rue the attempt, since he was insulting, not onlyher intelligence but that of the Mind Prince as well. M’ladymust remember the rule of the realm; must clear her mindof the heresy of earthly ideals, lest they become known andshe punished therefor. She would be saved a shock couldshe but realize beforehand that the lover she had lovedwould hate her even as she him. In Gehenna he and shewho had caused each other’s fall would be, indeed, bad met.

“See yonder warehouse beyond the wall?” Adeline pointedout a low structure. “There is checked all such superfluousbaggage as love. Only hate may be brought within.”

Dolores wondered that so small a building could storethe lingering loves of the Hadean hordes. Before she couldcomment, there came to them from the entrance of the wirelessstation just inside the gate a high shriek rent by a deeperstaccato of laughter. Down the steps and directly into herpath came rolling what looked an oversized foot-ball. Closefollowed His Evil Majesty himself. In one hand he waveda knout with snapping lashes. The laughter was his andmore cruel than his instrument of torture.

After handing over her babe to Adeline and commandinga quick retreat, Dolores hurried toward the ball, whichwas unwinding as it rolled. Its arms, legs and head provedto belong to a male manes, terrified beyond coherency. Bythe time Satan reached them with knout upraised, she hadpushed the wretch behind her and started him after thenoble-maid. Beyond a stinging of her consciousness, shedid not feel the blow that fell. Almost at once she recovered;was able to face His Highness with calm inquiry.

“What has he done to deserve this attack?”

“Done?” Satan’s voice crackled as had the whip.“Shouldn’t the chief inter-world operator know better thanto retail me bad tidings? Out of my way—I’m highlycharged!”

“No.” Dolores stood firm.

“You’d rather I’d experiment on you?”

“Yes.”

“Best look out, unless you want to be blinded until Judgment.”

She was able to disregard the Boss Bully’s warning bycentering her mind upon her great happiness. He had beenlove-worthy, John.

“You can’t strike me blind,” she said.

Into the confidence of the purple-black eyes uplifted tohis Satan scowled.

“You’d not be blind. You’d only think you were becauseI say so and my mind is stronger than yours. Everythingis a thought down here, as you must have learned ere this—justa bad thought.” With the lash in mid-air he added:“But, thank me, you can’t kill a bad thought.”

As her hair was lifting to the magnet of the knout, hedropped it. The respite, however, was not for mercy’s sake.

“You didn’t change expression. You don’t cringe.Why?”

“Pain is a coward’s thought. I know that you, Augustness,cannot hurt me.”

Interestedly he contemplated her and this, her first opendefiance. “You’re smarter than I thought. You have acertain regardlessness that is the next-best thing to consciouspower.”

“I have,” she said, “faith that——”

“Faith?” he jeered. “Then I have it, too—faith that I’lldo my damnedest. I cannot hurt you physically, no. ButI hold a record for hurting minds that may cause you toreconsider.”

“Not while I believe that all will be well with me.” Thevoice of her contention sounded like the balmy winds ofspring, to which nor man nor devil may say nay.

Perhaps her glance toward the gates suggested the sourceof her beatitude. Perhaps he sensed it from his own irritation.He passed her point to level one of his own.

“And has this belief absolute padded your senses againstthe fact that I am displeased with you, she-fool? Don’tworry. I never let personal prejudice interfere with TheCause. This faith-theory is valuable with the reverse Englishput on it. As a science, it has done considerable harmto the religions of the world. I’ve been waiting until yourweek was up. Why not have it now—your answer?”

“My answer to—to——”

“To my indecent proposition that you organize the viceof womanhood. Are you going to take that Low Priestessjob?”

“I have until to-morrow to decide.”

“True. And you hope meantime that your love-houndwill come barking at our Avernian door. Oh, don’t denyit! Why else should you be hanging ’round the gates? Whyelse should I?”

“But you said the judgments of men would never send ahero here.”

Stooping to recover his electric lash, Satan used it topunctuate his reply. “I’m hoping against hope, just as youare. If only he would be sent this way—ah! My latestwireless from Earth, however, leads me to fear not. Thenewspapers are headlined with his heroism. Imbecile earthlingsare going to erect a memorial to him. And, would youbelieve it, that hunting parson of yours has used your friend’sdeath as a stepping-stone out of the muddle-puddle of hisecclesiastical disrepute? With Cabot as his text, he preachedto thousands in Central Park, exampling himself through theviciously attacked philanthropist who, although proved guiltyof weakness of the flesh, rose to the moral strength of a godin an emergency. Get the idea? His plea is for all menwho have been dragged down by women. Should not heknow that Cabot was too greatly tried, since the same she-devilruined him with his church? You recognize theallusion? The prayers he sent up for the soul of his fellowvictim were indirectly for himself. As a result he is tohead the new Church of the Broad-Minded. Could youbeat it—or him?”

At her consternation, he chuckled enjoyably.

“How the people of Earth like to bunk themselves! Butyou look fogged. Is your faith getting cured? Care to comeinto the receiving room and sit while you wait? I left someunfinished business.”

As they mounted the steps of the stone-like structure,he added a mental lash to her punishment.

“You remember, of course, the lawyer who lost Mrs.Cabot’s divorce case? Last you saw of him, in ‘The Turn-Turtle,’he was being thrown out of his profession for mal-practicingthat delicate art called ‘double-crossing.’ Thetimely birth of your ill-begot, with fatherhood pinned onJohn Cabot by Seff’s testimony and the guilty admission ofyour suicide, was a-plenty and to spare to ruin Rufus Holt.But along comes that judge you tricked, Roscoe Strang, ofthe good-sport tie. He has Holt’s case re-opened and carriesthrough a daring example of man-to-man friendliness.”

From his belt he took the paper-like slip on which wirelessmessages were sent down by Gehennan operators.

“Let’s see just what he testified, this brotherly judge.Oh yes; ‘The accused did bring the Trent girl to me, butto let me judge of her guilt. She looked so pure that Iwas not convinced and stood, as I stand now, on my rightto judge. If fault there was, that fault was mine.’ Afterthat, there was nothing for the Bar Association to do butopen their arms to the brother they had misjudged.”

“I am glad,” Dolores said. “For a time I blamed RufusHolt for my sufferings. But he tried to be a true friendto John.”

“I dare say,” sneered Satan as he opened the station door,“and made a mess of it, as true friends usually do. At that,you’ve got a good start with him and can use him in ournew campaign.”

Within, an operator wearing a receiving head-dress, satamong his instruments. Beside a window which commandeda view of the entrance, His Highness placed a chair for her.

“The gates will open soon,” he advised. “Watch the newarrivals trickle in and call me in case you catch sight ofyour John. I am pardonably impatient to meet him.”

To sink into the chair was a relief. At sight of the preparationsoutside which the pigmy ushers were making for thereception of the evening’s recruits, Dolores’ mental pulseaccelerated. She strove for the strong thoughts which latelyhad sustained her and tried to keep out of her expressionthe pinch of hope long deferred.

“Are these likenesses, sweet Grief?”

Turning, she found Satan at her elbow, offering her half-a-dozensepia-like photographs. She took them; looked;exclaimed:

“John—wonderful! And this is Catherine at her best.How splendid of dear Clarke Shayle! Rufus Holt, too.Have you had them made for me? But why include theseof Vincent Seff and Dr. Willard? I’d rather forget them.”

“Does the murderer forget the features of the slain? Nay,fair assassin, you won’t need this collection for your dressingtable to remember your victims. These are stills selectedfrom our stock of life-films. I am glad you pronounce themsuch likenesses, for I’m sending them up to old Mors ofthe Mystery Gate to hang in his rogues’ gallery.”

“To Mors?”

Satan nodded. “I mean to put a stop-order on the lot, incase any of them come through ticketed to Elysium. I needtheir kind down here.”

“But I thought it was written in the tome called Judgmentsof Men where shades should spend the time until theCall,” she puzzled. “Doesn’t each enter his new estate as heleft the old? Must not his Earth record hold?”

His Highness frowned at the reminder. “Just becausea rule never has been broken is no reason why it never willbe. I may try, mayn’t I? Queer if I can’t frighten Morsinto making a few exceptions.” He turned to the operator.“Get the old ghoul. I would a word with him.”

The connection soon was made. Ensued a brief exchange,but one so vehement that the operator cautioned his masterto calm down, lest he blow out all the fuses about the place.

“There is one of them I must have, old-timer,” Satan continuedless offensively. “John Cabot by name and physiognomy.Likely to come through this very night....What ... What for, in the name of Hell?... Gallantryon Earth, eh?... Death, you’re a choicer fool than yoursister Birth!”

As he banged the receiver on its hook, Dolores arose.

“John has gone on—up into Elysium?” Her voice wasmore faint from surprise than his had been strong. “Hewon’t—- come down—this way?”

At the nod which His Highness spared her from his rage,she crossed the room, went out the door and down the steps.She was well along the path when he caught up with andstopped her.

“A word to the unwise,” said he. “To be without a jobis an embarrassing situation anywhere—particularly so downhere. Your fancy position as First Royal Entertainer hascome to an end. You’ll do well to take on the next bestthing that offers, lest your ability become discredited. Ireally believe you’re the ablest she-devil ever given a chanceto work out her own damnation. You have unique powers,but there is no personal power that cannot be destroyed.And I am the Destroyer.”

“This position you offer is so—is very difficult,” the girl-soulprotested.

“Isn’t everything worth while difficult? And you are veryclever, although in ways that may be used for or against you.On Earth you failed, just as badly managed talent often fails.Here I, the Boss Producer of a play called Sin, stand readyto star you in a success such as you, with your presentlimitations, cannot conceive. Already you know somethingof me——”

Dolores interrupted, although haltingly. “I know that youare—that you, too, are difficult.”

“At least that.” He bowed, as if thanking her. “Sinceit confuses you to consider me, pray consider yourself. It isplain that you’ve been, like myself, wrong since birth. Countthe men you’ve ruined, every one of whom turned to goodworks after your influence was removed. Think of what youdid—the first earth-law for women that you broke. Whatyou’ve needed is a manager just a shade worse-minded thanyourself. Now you’re offered one and a chance such as novampire of Earth or Hell ever aspired to. It is a positionfitted to the applicant, as your employment-agency friend,née Shinn, would say. What more ambitious rôle could youfind than arousing the worst, not in one, but in all the mencontrolled by women in the world?”

She drew her arm from his detaining clutch. “I have,you know, until——”

“Very well. I’ll wait. But mind you, there’ll be no extensionof time. Yes or no, and Hell help you if it be no!I want to get you started, so that I can give my own energiesto the incipient race riots in America. Great field for trouble.All the wealth of the world is there, with the basest traitorscast out of other countries to misuse it. Go home, sinceyou must have that last day of disgrace. But be ready withyour answer to-morrow.”

Like well-aimed shot, the syllables riddled Dolores’ brain.A wounded doe, she hurried on her way to cover.

To-morrow.

That night while she lay bleeding of her heart wound,Dolores roused to the perception of an unaccustomed metallicsound. She realized that, for some time, she had been hearingit. Tap, tap, tap—it now increased in peremptoriness.Someone must be trying to attract her attention from outsidethe window.

She sat up among her pillows of satin sheen. By thesulphuric glow of the night-light, she saw that it was afterone o’clock, three long hours since Adeline had tip-toed out.

After one and to-morrow——

The face of the sardonyx-like clock seemed to grin backat her in anticipation of the seventh—said to be the perfectday. “The faith of fools—the faith of fools!” it tickedaway.

Until she knew that John was not to join her, she hadfailed to appreciate how greatly she was relying upon hisassistance and advice. To choose between His Majesty’sdiabolic assignment and the ingenious torments to which sheand her babe would be subjected became the more impossiblethe longer she considered.

Were she what she once had been, expectant of the bestbecause all-ignorant of the worst, she would have decided,without a moment’s hesitation, upon what she knew to beright. But knowledge was weakening. Constant associationwith sin and suffering wore away the best intentions. Tostruggle against fore-assured failure until the negligent hopesof Gehenna changed to fear and fear changed, to despair——

She covered her eyes from the suggestive leer of the clock-faceand sank back into the veil of her crepe-black hair.

“Amor ... Innocentia ... Where are you?”

“Tap! Tap!”

As though in answer to her stifled sob of loneliness, themetallic sound was repeated on the pane. Could they bewithout, the comrades of her youth, come to console hereven before she called? Into peignoir and mules she hurried;crossed the room; threw wide the casem*nt.

“Who is it? Who is there?”

“Sh—hush!”

In the answering rasp sounded neither the lilt of Innocentianor the fearlessness of the love-lad Amor. From out thedeep shadows that hugged the palace wall limped the lately-promotedGeneral Cummings. More spectral than seemedconsistent with his brief lapse from mortality he lookedas he crossed the sill. From his once tranquil eyes shonethe hell-haunted look of the archaics. His kindly old facewas stretched and blanched.

“What has happened to you, Corporal Sam?” Dolores’tones sounded her distress at the change in him.

Before replying he drew the window hangings and dimmedthe night lamp. “No one must discover I’m here. They sayHis Highness knows everything that goes on in the palace,but I have risked it. You seem the only chance of savingus.”

From the edge of the bed, Dolores focused her amazementupon the doughty soldier-soul. “Saving you—fromwhat?”

“From his Great Intention.” Old Sam’s voice shiveredinto a whisper. “You don’t understand? I’ve heard thateven the prime minister is not in his confidence. But Ihoped that you had wormed it out of him. Since I understood,I haven’t rested day nor night, although there’s littleI can do. You have no idea what a hold he’s got on thosefight-fiends. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, miss, that isto say ma’am, but from the reports of your séances you’veturned some mighty powerful mortal minds topsy-turvy.For your own sake, for the sake of God Himself—wouldn’tyou be willing to try?”

“To try just what?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.” Stiff from apprehension,the old manes’ lips formed clumsily to his revelation. “HisLowness aims to march into the Fields before Judgment,conquer the Elysiumites and hurl the Great-I-Am from Histhrone. Don’t you understand yet? He aims to set himselfon high as God-of-all!”

“Oh, but he can’t do that! How could he conquer God?”

“You wouldn’t be so sure could you see how those hordestake to training. Every decent impulse is drilled out ofthem. The kind of frightfulness he’s planning makes a latelymortal brain reel. Ma’am, I calculate that he’s going towin.”

“No! The Great-I-Am would not let him.”

At the girl-shade’s vehemence the old soul waggled hishead, in his eyes the shadow of horrors that might not beforgot.

“You’ve seen wrong conquer right on Earth, or youwouldn’t be here. I’ve lost all hope unless—From what Ihear I wasn’t so far off about his having a weakness foryou. In camp every officer has his joke about the modernDelilah that’s destroying the Destroyer. All Gehenna istalking over his neglect of affairs of state to amuse youwith shows and such. Not once of late has he been to mostof the sham battles that he used to review daily.”

“I am afraid you overrate——”

“Pardon me, ma’am, but that’s the best. The worst can’tbe overrated. You see, they call him the Hope of Hell.His hold on the hordes is that, if they drive on to victoryin the great offensive, they win eternal release. They fightfor themselves, not him. If they lose, they’ll be the firstcast into the bottomless pit forever and ever, amen. Ifthey win, he’ll give them rank and estates in the new autocracyof universal, everlasting, licensed crime. I don’t fearfor myself so much. I and even you might sink low enoughto get by without exciting suspicion that we’re unsympathetic.It’s the Elysiumites that are going to suffer. Miss, can’t youimagine what a Satanic victory would mean to a gentle spiritlike——”

To hide his emotion Old Sam covered his face with bothhands.

“My Mary Gertrude never was mistreated in her life.But I wouldn’t put it past these helliot hordes to——”

Dolores shuddered. “The damned masters and the blessedtheir slaves?”

“You begin to understand. Isn’t there someone up therethat you feel grateful to—someone you’d hate to see——”

“My mother died to give me life,” the spirit-girl breathed.“And my father must be with her. He’s not down here.Intemperance, you know, is considered a disease, not a crime,in the eyes of men. And then there’s little Jack Cabot. Heseemed really to trust every word I told him about his rewardif he did what was right. I couldn’t bear to see poor,crippled Jack——”

General Sam nodded. “It comes home, doesn’t it, ma’am,when you think of those you love?”

“Love?” With the word, Dolores threw up her head.Into the veteran’s pale eyes her dark ones gloomed. “Alreadythe King hates the one I love. If Satan should comeinto this limitless power, what torments he would devise forthe great soul of John Cabot!”

A sound startled them. The soldier-shade hobbled towardthe window by which he had entered, motioning her to follow.Before opening the shutter, he whispered:

“I’d best go. I dare not come again and there’s no wayI can help you. You’ll have to make up your own mindwhat to do. Only remember there isn’t much time. He’snigh about ready to strike. God A’mighty give you wisdom,ma’am.”

He had wrung her hand. Almost was he over the sillwhen a blinding flash struck at him from out the drab-dimnight. Not a sound escaped him. Not so much as a clutchat the air stayed his fall. His right hand raised to his capvisor in his old-time salute. Then backward he fell uponthe floor.

When Dolores’ eyes had recovered from their momentaryconfusion, she saw His Majesty standing just without. Hispleased look reminded her of the fearing wretch she hadsaved from a like attack yesterday. Only the hope born ofher happiness had defeated his power to hurt her. Althoughnot happy now, she was far from despair. Should he turnnext on her, only faith could save her. She must believethat, despite appearances on Earth and in Shadow Land,good was stronger than evil.

He stepped aside, the King; glanced at the procumbentfigure; smiled his attractive smile.

“Damme if one can count upon the taste feminine!”

The cynicism he addressed to the double of himself thatshowed in the nearest mercurized pier-panel of her chamber.For a moment he contemplated the dim reflection of hissplendid proportions, the clean-cut features of his infernallyyouthful face and the perfection of his evening attire.

“Is no age or fraction of he-man safe from you?” he commented.“So this is why he always plead your cause, whyI caught him rendezvousing with you in the garden, whyhe talked me down? These shallow-looking folk, forsooth,are the deep ones.”

“Your Lowness—” Dolores approached him with blaze-indignanteyes—“surely you do not assume that I or GeneralSam——”

“I never assume. I know the worst. That’s my power.I ought to be disgusted with you, and yet——” He consideredher face almost as interestedly as he had his own.The charm of his smile increased. He added: “I’ve oftennoticed that men never get disgusted with the lady in thecase. But I’ll make a horrible example of that broken-wingedold moth, lured here by your light, for benefit ofother mashers. Have to protect your promiscuous stamp ofvamp from the outside.”

That he was angrier than he sounded was suggested bythe snap of his fingers toward the window. Into the chambersprang a pair of the palace guards.

“Nerve shock—boomeranged.” Laconically His Highnessgestured toward the soldier-soul. “Lay him out in the RevivalRoom. See you handle him gently until I advise youwhat particular form his mistreatment is to take. I mustwork out something especially effective.”

He followed to the casem*nt, as the stalwarts carried outthe victim of his inviolate will. There he turned, as thoughchancing to remember the recipient of the two nocturnalcalls.

“Miss or madame, I wish you good morrow. As your—ah—friendwas saying at the moment of my interruption, rememberthat there isn’t much time. Think things over.”

Dolores took the repeated advice. Through the long, vaguehours of the Avernian dawn she did think things over;thought and thought.

His Highness said she had power. Indeed, she must havepower, else she could not have flouted, even in small ways,his mastery. But hers was not the power for sin which heascribed to her. Long ago a brilliant lawyer had toasted itas “truth.” Before that she herself had called it “sincerity.”She knew before trying that she should fail at the task ofrousing the worst in women, when their best had been herEarth-life ideal.

Since nothing in all the universe was meant to be wasted—nota throb of heart or thought of mind—why had she beengiven power? To lose it in the chaos of disappointment intowhich she had sunk after realizing that John Cabot was notto come to her—that the sentences for the same crime inman and his woman were not necessarily the same? Shehad been anticipating Hell. Although the time before ThatDay might be short, she might yet earn progression; perhapsmight go to John, since he had not come to her. Supposeshe had the right with everyman to draw upon theexhaustless supply of strength which they claimed was God——Suppose she could possess more and still more of thispower of sincerity——

Stronger than the gleams of the up-rising electric sungrew her determination; brighter her hope; realer her faith.The Rex of Reversals did not know everything, else wouldhe have realized ere this that he could not conquer her.And he had some sort of weakness for her. Otherwise he’dhave crushed her long ago. In the present emergency shewould seem to yield to him. She would match power againstpower, wit against wit, subtlety against subtlety. She wouldtake the case of the women of the world, but take it, as hadRufus Holt that of Cabot versus Cabot, to lose. By stressof her own emotion she had learned that only spiritualstrength was necessary to communicate with Earth. Thatdiscovery should not be wasted. Over the official wirelessthrough the days would she command evils. In the night-time,with only her own yearning soul as sending station andthe souls of Earth’s sad women as receivers, would she counter-command.

Perhaps the time would be shorter than General Cummingsfeared or His Majesty hoped. Perhaps The Callwould sound before he found her out. And if she was insinceretoward her enemy, it would be that she might bethe more sincere toward her friends. A judge of Earthhad absolved her of guilt at first sight because he saw inher face that her motive was innocent. Surely the GreatJudge would be as keen.

As for the unspeakable thing known, without being known,as The Great Intention, that also might she delay and divert.On Earth she had been called a menace to men. If wilesenough remained at her command, now that she needed themto save rather than destroy herself—if the value of herfavors did not decrease with deliberate use of them—shesoon would have the soldier messenger set free. With orwithout him, however, she would find ways to weaken theKing’s hold upon his military. While Satan was givingthe whole of his intelligence to inciting riot among the mixedraces of her own America she would be sowing schism amongthe condemned who had been drafted and branded into theHadean armies.

The truth ought to be spreading propaganda. With whatlittle she could disseminate on Earth and the much she mustbegin at once to spread in Gehenna——

Adeline’s tap on her door announced that what couldn’thappen had happened—that she had caught up with theelusive to-morrow. But sufficient unto the seventh day wasthe enlightenment thereof.

Dolores was ready at last with her answer.

CHAPTER XXVI

Soft as the light shed from Beyond, a breeze blew overthe inner fields of Elysium. Soft also was the whisperedgratitude of the olive trees and palms; soft the smiles ofthe flowers of lilies and of Lebanon, of celestial roses, ofamorant and of rustling immortelles. The ribbon-like streamthat bounded the emerald velvet skirts of the meadow-landfluttered from the buoyant breath.

Of the trees, only a spruce atop a nearby knoll failedto sway. Too heavy was it with birds. Although its branchesdown-hung dejectedly, from its tip waved skyward a tunefulpanegyric. So full was the chorus, it seemed that everysongster must be voicing a heart full of joy. Yet one therewas that did not sing, a yellow, strongly visible atom ofimmortality perched upon a low-swung twig.

His head was perked to one side. His round, quick eyeswere fixed on the glittering hazes that hung, like veils ofsilver-mesh veiling countless finer veils of golden threads,before the Source of Light. He was looking and listening.An excited chirp escaped him. With the motions of a birdunused to the exercise of his wings, he half hopped, halfflew from his branch to the sward and started with whatspeed he might across the greening pastures.

One spiritualized to follow the hope of so small a shadewould have seen turning back from a company of spirits,then advancing into the radiant distances, the form of achild—a boy-soul of some nine years. With an odd, slitheringsort of walk, he retraced his steps. Now and then hewould stop and, shading his eyes, would peer in the generaldirection of the Mystery Gate. He, too, appeared to be listeningand looking.

Although Jack Cabot still limped, he had out-progressedany pain of consciousness over his deformity. Knowingthat except for the imperfect union of his parents, he wouldhave been born perfect in love, he believed that the visibleof him would be straightened at his second birth. Adjudgedan innocent offspring of righteousness, he had been unhamperedby the curse of the world; indeed, had been givenbenefit of every doubt. His movements had gained freedomand his features had beautified. On closer view, however,his expression showed to be disconsolate. His sigh was repeatedin that of another back-gazing manes whom he passed.

“Don’t you belong to anybody, too?” Jack asked him.“Mors told me I was assigned to bliss. I walk so mucheasier now, I know I ought to go on. But, oh, I am solonely!”

“I know. I know”—the stranger-shade. “It is hard tobe blissful alone.”

At the moment Jack espied the tiny yellow creature flutteringtoward him. An eager chirp started him toward it, atfirst hesitantly, then as fast as he could go. Thus met thetwo passionate spirits which had been caged together onEarth—the one passionate in his resentment, the other in thedetermination, instinct, or whatsoever may be called the willof a bird, to teach the joy of life.

In his hurry, Jack stumbled and fell, both hands outstretched.Into them flew the yellow mite; twittered ecstatically;billed the boyish lips that quivered into sobs andlaughter.

“You look like—You are! Oh, Dick, you flew into theLight after me? You have been hunting for me? I’mashamed of the way I used to treat you, Dickie bird. Butyou understand now, don’t you, that it was only because Ididn’t ’preciate that there’s a heart in every living thing,sometimes the biggest in the littlest? I had my eyes so seton a dog that I didn’t see how precious you were! I wonderdid the gold-fish like me, too? It means something when aboy’s bird will die to follow him. I’m ashamed, Dick.Honest, I’m awful ashamed.”

The canary’s response was a burst of the song which hehad not sung when sitting upon the spruce tree, bereft ofcompanionship although in the company of so many of hiskind. Perched upon the boy-shade’s shoulder, he revealed hissecret in sound. Higher and freer and more poignantly sweetthan ever fluted songster of Earth, he gave out on theElysian air the theme of selfless love.

Inspirited, Jack continued on his return over the fields.He walked evenly that he might not dislodge his pet. Andhe chatted appreciatively in the intervals of the song, toatone for his unappreciative past.

“There are all sorts of musicians as you go nearer theLight, they tell me. There are pipers and harpers andtrumpeters and countless choir-singers that almost make youlong to die again for joy. But I’ll bet there’s none will singso sweet as you, Dick. Once I’m satisfied to go on, I’ll takeyou with me and give you the chance you never had onEarth.”

By now the two were well over the crest of the stream-skirtedknoll. Toward them, from the direction of the gate,spirits fluttered like leaves in a wind. Voices called outthrough the spaces—glad cries of greeting and wails of disappointmentworn weak from repetition.

As before, Jack shielded his eyes with one hand and peeredabout. And, as he peered, he vented a cry that was theaggregate of all certitude. His left hand he lifted to guardthe bird, then started down the hill.

From out the nether hazes a man-shade came climbingtoward them. That he lately had arrived from Earth showedin the anxiety of his dark, strong face. When he saw whowas shuffling toward him and recognized the excited, childishvoice hailing him, he increased his pace. When theymet, father and son:

“Greetings, John Cabot!”

“Jack Cabot, greetings!”

The large and small hands gripped.

“I had a feeling you were due,” explained the boy, conqueringthe first incoherency of his delight. “I guess Dickmust have felt the same way. Did you hear him sing as wecame over the hill? Oh, John, I’m so glad you’ve come!This is a wonderful place to be happy in. But you can’tbe happy alone. I’ve come back ever so often, hoping thatyou or——”

“Then you haven’t seen her yet?”

“You mean?” For a moment the child-soul stared up athis father’s emotionful face. He stood on tip-toe to whisperhis interpretation, lest the joy-jealous zephyrs snatch it away.“Not her—not ’Lores!”

“She came a month since. I am sure she would havebeen on the lookout for you, Jack. Strange you have notmet.”

“Maybe——” Jack shuddered. “It’s an awful journeyover. Maybe she got so afraid of the snakes and the owlsand the wild asses——”

“There’s no stopping along the highway, son. Every soulsurvives the dread of death, they tell me. In reality, thetransition between the two phases of existence is brief. Atthe gate they told me that she had passed through, but theyrefused so much as a hint at the direction she had taken. I’vecovered the border fields thoroughly since I came. Hadconcluded she must have found you and gone on.”

His concern lowered like a shadow to Jack’s face. “Itdon’t seem like ’Lores to forget me. I’d never give up tryingto find her.”

“She may not have known that I was on the way.” Johnappeared to be advising himself. “But she did seem so closeto me that morning above the sea. Her voice sounded soclear—so near. I was sure she had called me. If I couldhear her with ears of clay, it seems as though she—— Itried to answer her. I wonder——”

Neither father nor son had noticed two small clouds whichhad appeared on the horizon line above the nether world.Mere fluttering specks at first, they had developed color andform in a rapid approach. They settled upon the sward andhurried forward. He in advance was of up-standing form,his face beautiful and ardent, despite its lines of care. Byone hand, he led a fair girl spirit whose head hung as iffrom shame and whose eyes, on close approach, showed tobrim with tears. Boldly enough the youth lined up beforethe two Cabots.

“I am Amor and this is Innocentia. You know us well,although on Earth you could not see us. In a way we belongto you as well as to our dear Dolores.”

“Dolores?” John snatched at the name. “You can tellus where she is?”

“Let me prepare you”—in pity, Amor. “I owe my lifeto you, John Cabot. I was, in fact, born of your heart beatsthat day you first saw her in Seff’s shop. Not consciously—ofcourse mortals realize only the half of what they do—yousent me to her side to guide her. I have done what I could.But earthlings have no care for love. They never think tospare it until after it is dead.”

The shy girl spirit was moved by her comrade’s self-depreciationto speak. “Amor has been splendid. He was closebeside her when she heard the news that you had been sentto the Fields. He proposed our search for you. And heheld me up with sheer strength when I felt that I mustswoon from exhaustion. Always he has tried to protectme even as—as you.”

“As I?” John asked.

“Don’t you recognize me yet?” She brushed the moisturefrom her eyes and lifted them to his, twin blue anemones.“I am what you loved best in your love. Although you couldnot see me as now, you knew that I was there. You heldme dearer than her beauty, than her youth—yes, even thanher passion for you.”

“In mercy’s name, don’t taunt me!” John’s voice was asort of groan. “I did value you. I tried to save you frommyself. God knows how hard I tried. It seems incredibleto me now that I should have torn you from her—trampledon you——”

“Trampled me? You never did that.” Her timidity conqueredby sight of his suffering, Innocentia touched his arm.“Not for one minute was I really afraid of you. A greatlove, such as yours, could not harm me. Amor often toldme that. I stayed close to her on Earth and crossed withher into Shadow Land.”

“Even down there we’ve been with her most of the time,”Amor added.

“Down there?” Startled out of his shame, John Cabotpeered into the care-worn faces of the guardian pair. “Youmean—she is assigned——”

He read the answer in their distressed, averted looks. Hismind was quickly made.

“Lead on—and down!”

“But, John——” Young Jack clung tight to one of theknotted fists that hung at his father’s side—“you can’t gointo Gehenna. You and I are assigned to the Fields. Itis a rule here that we can go on, but never back.”

“Go on—without her?” John laughed in a short, hardway. “There is no right in a rule that assigns me to Elysiumand her to Gehenna. I’ll find a way to prove that one manfeels responsible for a woman’s fall. Son, I am going tobring her back with me.”

“If you could, John—if only you could!” Afraid, yetbrave to believe in the power of his god of Earth, the boy-soulgazed into his father’s face. “You’ll look for me,John, first thing when you come back? A little way on thereare bowers and villas that the shades build to live in whiletheir eyes and minds are getting used to the Light. Theyleave them empty for anyone to take when they’re ready toprogress nearer the Source. You’ll know the one I’m inif you listen to hear Dick sing. I’ll be waiting for you and—andher, John Cabot.”

“Jack Cabot, until we meet again!”

In time the boy had remembered his lameness, so did notplead to go along. The best way to expedite his hero’s returnwas to let him proceed unencumbered. Striving forcourage, he watched the tall form follow Amor and Innocentiaacross the fields. A twitter reminded him that he wasnot entirely deprived. Gulping back his disappointment, hedeclared manfully:

“We’ll get a nice place ready for her, Dick—my othermother. He says he’ll bring her back, so we know he will.John can do anything. It will be fun being happy!”

Across the mystery wastes that lie between the mortalworld and Shadow Land looms a redoubtable wall. Throughits gateway any from Earth may pass at will. But none mayreturn.

Just within, the two head ushers slumped upon their benchand gazed over the familiar, but incogitable scene. The well-worninward path soon divided, its lower half to drop over adeclivity, whence it sloped “easily” into Avernus, its upperto wind away and away until lost in that incalculably distantglow.

“Queer set this”—the first usher.

“Queer is right—or wrong”—his fellow. “I’d like toknow, for instance, what makes that Light.”

“I, too. Can’t be either sun or moon, because it neversets.”

The chief’s eyes fixed on a verdant slope, from whosehazes a female figure sped with apprehensive manner towardthe base of the wall. He shrugged on seeing a unit of theboundary patrol return her into the Fields, but gently, withnever a threat of spear.

“One of the yearning mothers, I suppose. Strange howthey’re possessed to slip back to their children!”

“Children who likely aren’t wasting a worry on them,”the associate sighed. “Why won’t mothers let bad enoughalone?”

A wail like the lament of a lost zephyr drew their attentionto the rim.

“That fool woman in love trying to descend again,” thesecond usher continued to grumble. “She’s not the firstwho’s insisted that she’d rather be in Hell with him than inHeaven without. Quaint, isn’t it, considering that we don’thave any trouble with men in vice-versa cases?”

“Hi, guardsmen! You asleep? What’s wrong overthere?”

With his cry, the chief sprang up and hurried toward thedown path. Ahead of him ran the spear-carrier whom hehad called to task. Behind came his fellow.

From the brume of the upper distances a group of threespirits had emerged and were rushing downward, regardlessof the shade patrol. Through the array of spears leveledagainst them they darted as though impervious to woundsof fear.

On the rock-strewn cliff the reinforcements found themselvesfacing an aroused man-manes whose like they neverhad seen. Clothed in an armor of light was John Cabot,“his eyes as lamps of fire ... and the voice of his wordslike the voice of a multitude.”

“What matter the judgments of men, after man’s littleday is done? Make way. I am going through.”

“Drive him back,” commanded the chief usher. “All togethernow!”

Against the row of leveled spear points, John hurledhimself.

“Right is might and I am right,” he cried.

“You can’t pit one will against hundreds and win,” thechief contended. “Stop a second. Realize how foolish——”

“And what is folly but a riotous expenditure of will?”At his application of the memory flash, John laughed. “Thisis—to will—and to have—my will,” he panted as he foughtthe united determination to stay him. “You witness the end—ofmy social ideas—my immoderate desires—my excesses—mypleasures that—have ended—in death. A laugh for—yourhundreds—of wills!”

Perhaps by his rashness, perhaps by force of the wind nowrousing in strength from over the Fields, the light forms ofAmor and Innocentia were snatched up and borne throughthe ranks of the guard. At sight of their disappearance intothe abyss, John’s eyes blazed like lit torches.

“Since mind is more than matter up here—since this is aworld of will—let the stronger will prevail!”

From the grasp of the nearest of the patrol, he wrencheda torch-lit spear. Waving it on high, he rushed their resistance;engaged them; smote their thoughts with histhoughts. The two ushers fell back, powerless to contendagainst him.

“He must be a madman,” gasped the chief.

“Or a god”—his associate.

Both shook in the greatening gale. Both paled to see thatthe mystery Light, which had abided since their entrance intoShadow Land, was being eclipsed by Stygian clouds. Sodark grew the air that they scarcely could discern the formof the man-manes outlined against the rim. But his battle-crycame back to them.

“Make way—make way for my mind!”

Into the thunders that rocked the clouds merged his voice.Lightnings lit his victory. Madman or god, he plunged overthe rim.

CHAPTER XXVII

Early as she dared that forenoon, Dolores had soughtaudience with the King. From calculation new to her, shehad arrayed herself to please him. Ceding the mauves anddove grays that seemed best to express her, she had selectedone of the court creations designed for her by the masterelectrician of His Highness’s own robes—an effect as ofdawn-tinted tulles weighted by a tunic sewn over with roserubies. Her hair she had wrapped about her head like asplendid coronet. To the handle of the jasper-like staff tobe carried with the costume she had fastened the tiny dynamoof a full-blown, scarlet rose and in the ribbon of one silversandal, just over the high-arched instep, had tied a closed,pearl-dewed bud. Upon Adeline’s verdict of “Exquisite,madame!” she had studied the mercury lest any possibilityof further effect be neglected. The reflection was of awoman-soul, young, fresh, hopeful as the early morn, yetalready aglow from the red realizations of her noon-day.

His Majesty received her alone in the throne-room.Among fulsome compliments he interspersed his gratificationthat she had not awaited a summons from him.

Dolores was more surprised by this affability than sheshould have been by any new truculence. For the first momentsshe found herself overcome by what she had preparedto overcome in him—indignation.

“Then you did not really suspect me last night?”

He lifted a protesting hand. “You wouldn’t deprive meof that pleasure? Can’t you conceive how much rivals areenjoyed by the admirer who need have no fear?” He descendedthe dais to substantiate the claim in the mirror.

After he had placed the prime minister’s chair for her,she gave him her answer. She would accept the office ofLow Priestess.

At the quiet pronouncement a gleam lit the steel of hiseyes.

“I am glad,” said he. “Sooner or later—probably soonerthan later—I should have made you accept it. However, itis gratifying that you have done so, shall we say, near-voluntarily?You make me hope that——”

He bent his head and looked into her face. Soon hefinished in the smooth voice of a hierophant expounding hisdoctrine.

“You make me hope several things of you. From yourviewpoint I ought to despise you for last night’s discoverythat your vamping mania has consumed a soldier from myranks doddering enough to be your grandfather.”

“You are too intelligent to believe that,” she flashed.

“Nice work for an earthly audience. But it’s not to yourinterest to convince me. I am too delighted to find you worsethan you at times appear. Did you notice down in the worldthat the virtuous women keep the devotion of their men?I guess not. One difference between me and male earthlingsis that I own up to a depravity which they are taught frombirth to deny. The worse I think you, the longer you’relikely to hold me. Pray let me dream on!”

“To hold—you?”

Something of sincerity in his voice forced the query.Instantly she regretted it.

“That naïveté is your cleverest trick,” he approved. “Youprobably guessed long before I did my—ah—dishonorableintentions. Since you ask, I don’t mind declaring them hereand now.”

“Oh, no, not now—not here!”

With the protest she got to her feet and turned towardthe door. But she was stopped by the compelling look ofhim.

“Why should I be willing to invest you with a power equalalmost to my own? Am I likely to overlook how much moredeadly is the female than the male—how much faster youwill grow in sin than I have done, once you are well started?Should I risk your attempting to overthrow me by not makingour interests one?”

She did not answer his questions. And she asked noneother. She stood, perforce, waiting to hear that of whichinstinct had warned her all along.

He began again in different vein. “I’ve been mighty lonelydown here these last few thousand years. You see, I’venever been appreciated or understood. The moment I sawyou that terrible Tuesday—or was it a tragic Thursday?—Iappreciated that you were different. To have the sympathyand approval of a woman-soul like you——” He interruptedwith a laugh at himself. “But there, I’ll leave that ‘lonely,’‘misunderstood’ old plea for the husbands of the world totell other men’s wives. The truth is, you have convinced methat I’ve missed a whole lot. Much as I despise weaknesses,I have come to feel that one would be a luxury. Dolores,I want to love you.”

“But I don’t want you to.” She stepped back from him.

“And I want you,” he continued imperturbably, “to wantto love me. I could have made you do so long ago, just asyour hypnotic osteopath could have done, but I’d not be satisfiedwith that brand. Come, give the devil his due!”

All she gave him was silence. He watched her while continuing.

“In the close relationship which I propose, you’ll havegreater opportunity to quip my curiosity and compel my admiration.Should I tire of you our community of interestswill bind me to you much as earthlings are bound in thatstate called—Fairest fiend, I ask you to become my queen.”

“No!”

Dolores was dismayed beyond all discretion. She triedto throw off the clutch which he laid upon her arm.

“You’d be wiser to conceal your aversion,” he advised.“You are going to accept me whether you wish to or not, justas you have accepted the office of Low Priestess. In bothcases the answer was settled before the proposition was put.And it is a fair proposition, this last. I am positively anxiousto care for you as much as I can—more, if anything, thanI intend to make you care for me. ‘He that leadeth intocaptivity shall go into captivity.’ Don’t you see? I haveacknowledged my wish for one weakness to give you everychance for graceful consent. With me it is now or never.I feel that you are the one woman-shade who can teach me—well,what I wish to know. But you won’t get a secondchance. The Great-I-Am is a softy to give man a secondchance in the Redemption. I shall not be that soft regardingyou.”

As still she spoke no word, he urged more stressfully:

“Have you no ambition that you scorn the queenship ofthe Universe? That’s what my offer means. I have takennone into the secret of my Great Intention. And until Ifeel that we are one in spirit as in state, I shall not fullyconfide in you. But I’ll say that the day of my deliveranceis close at hand. Soon my supremacy shall be establishedfrom everlasting to everlasting. Ruthlessness shall rule beforethe time of the end. How long, do you suppose, canHe stand who is self-acknowledged to be all this weaknesscalled love, against The Hate, which am I?”

The question he blazed into her eyes, now uplifted to thedemand of his.

“Little fool, how dare you hesitate? Consider what youare and who I am—your smallness and my greatness. ConsiderEternity. Hell is my home-land. I have conqueredEarth. High Heaven only is to gain. The time is nearwhen the Castling from Paradise shall return unto his own.Judgment shall be damned on that day. And I shall beJehovah. The Day—The Day!”

In an ecstasy of egoism, he caught the spirit-girl by theshoulders; willed her up the steps and into his great carvedchair.

“Sit you in the seat of the mighty,” he ordered. “Learnthe sensation of gracing a throne. Queen of three worlds—myqueen—accept the salute of your most abject slave!”

Sinking to one knee he lowered his lips to her bare ankle.The spot they pressed stung as though from nettles, thenturned redder than the rose-bud tied against her instep.

“I am a suppliant, Queen Dolores—I who never was asuppliant before.” His lips increased in ardor through thecontact. “I need you. I want you. But I want you toacknowledge the need of me. Always have I jeered at mortalmen who plead for favor. I don’t know what’s come overme. I could take you and make you and break you all in oneflash of my will. And yet—I ask you, Dolores. I ask you.”

The spirit-girl realized that the time had come for her tospeak, but she could not force her tongue. Gone was herself-reliance of the early dawn. She had come prepared,but not for this. Overwhelmed she felt by his declarationas she had not been by his threats.

The sensation was familiar; recalled those days of uncertaintyin the Cabot home when she had been tried by theevasive ways of John. Then her fear had been for him and,through him, for herself. Now he and she were includedonly as infinitesimal atoms in the universal disaster thatimpended.

Look high as Heaven, look low as Hell, she was afraid.

“How dark it is growing!” She shuddered.

“Is it so dark you cannot see that I am on my knees, stillasking you?”

“How can you ask me, when you know where my heartbelongs?”

His lips lifted over his fang-like teeth, in sudden reversionto type. “No heart that I want can belong anywhere else,”he snarled. “You have seen that mongrel lover of yours turnyellow with cowardice.”

“I have seen him,” she corrected, “conquer cowardice.”

“We won’t quibble. The obstinacy of the female heart ismore often a fault than a virtue. Open your mind to conviction.Can you imagine me feeling cowardice? I’ve triedto give you an idea of how bad I am. At least I have shownenough inherent evil to awaken some slight admiration.”

“But our standards are very different, Your Lowness. Idon’t admire this ruthlessness you boast. The sensationsfrom love and hate are very much alike, they say. Isn’tit possible that you are mistaken in the absolutism of yourwickedness? Don’t you suppose that you are capable of apulse-beat of mercy for one who——”

The flash of lightning that shivered through the thickeninggloom of the great room seemed to illuminate herbroken query with significance. The answering rumble ofthunder was no less menacing than his reply.

“This is heresy. You weaken your capacity for sin withevery such thought. Good as you are, I’ll make you in timebad as I am. As the queen-consort you shall become thewickedest thought of my mind, the most vicious desire ofmy soul. Deadlier than death, you shall give and keep givinglife to my love. Undying love—that would be a delicatemorsel, would it not, little gourmet of the hearts of men?”

“All real love is undying,” she maintained.

Her eyes held on the distant curtain. Its alternating electricstripes were writhing like snakes, as if tormented by awind stronger than its dynamo.

“At least, passion is not. Undying passion—that wouldbe something new even to you, eh? Do you remember,siren, my mention of an ‘experiment’?”

Dolores, at the look that was lapping her face, shrank backinto the throne chair. At the burn of his hands as theypressed her outline from waist to shoulders, a scream brokefrom control. But even as she was impelled forward anddown, her terror became exorcised by the lure in the look ofhim. That most destructive of all forces—the brute forceof evil thought—bent her knees; loosened her clutch of thechair-arms; drew downward her face. Almost had her lipsmet his in a loathing, yet longing soul-caress——

The semi-gloom was lit by many kilowatts of light. Thecurtain was torn apart. From the entrance door a tall man-spiritfought his way. A cursing demon pack surroundedhim. To his legs clung the dwarfs of the Gehennan gate.Lightnings from the storm without followed him, as steelslivers follow a magnet. Disheveled, wild of eye from thefury of his fight, unannounced and undeterred, he forced hisway to the dais steps.

“At last—John!”

Sad from the very intensity of her gladness rang the belltones of Dolores’ salutation. At sight of her beloved shehad found herself; had broken the evil spell put upon her;had risen from the throne. She stood with hands outstretched,a visualization of that composite called a woman’sheart. Ethereal as the fabric of her gown shone her faceand forehead. Rose red as the mesh of rubies that girdledher glowed her lips. And from the deep purple of her eyesall mystery cleared—a royal revelation.

But John Cabot did not accept the invitation of her hands.He did not ascend the steps. In silence he returned her gaze.In his ears still rang the scream which had brought himstrength to worst the hellion guards. His mind hurt fromthe sobs of the love-lad and Innocentia, huddled in horroroutside the door. His eyes saw only the picture hung beforehis entry of a lady downbent and a kneeling knight, theirlips about to meet.

He lifted his regard to the magnificent figure loomingnegligently behind the throne-chair. Gray eyes met black, asoundless clash of iron and steel.

Satan snapped the pause. “So—you have joined us, afterall?”

“Sir,” said John, “you have the advantage over me.”

“I have, indeed, as will develop on acquaintance. I believeyou have already met her known as Grief to Men.Suppose you bow before the queen to be.”

John’s gaze returned to the prayer for forgiveness onDolores’ face. His leonine head leaned as if to hear thequiver of her lips. The great soul of him saw more than hiseyes had seen. He granted the prayer, took the offered hand;bent before the spirit of the woman he had loved until hiskiss swept her finger-tips.

“Dolores, I have come to you. On Earth I was too weakin flesh to show the strength of my regard for you. But youshould not have distrusted and deserted me. Didn’t yourealize, from your own desolation, how hard it was for meto stay away?”

“Afterward I realized,” she murmured. “Too late Iknew.”

“I was fighting your enemies, myself chief among them.I had determined to save your good name. It was ironicalthat the friend who tried to help me ruined both your lifeand mine. Had I known about the child, even though Icould not have freed myself by law, I should have declaredyou my wife before the world—not as I’d have wished,but in a binding pact. Dolores, I have come to tell you——”

“So we observe,” slashed His Majesty’s sword-sharpvoice. “And might I inquire just why you presume to cometo this lady—you who have a perfectly bad wife on Earth?”

“I am divorced by death.”

John continued to look only at her whose good-faith wasthe sine qua non of his desire. She, he could see, was eagerto hear him, despite her apparent fear of the Machiavellianpresence. To her he spoke, low and rapidly.

“I found myself in a burning plane at sea. I seemed tohear your voice calling me from far away. But the shortcutI tried to take to you has proved the longest way. WhenI learned that you had been assigned to Gehenna and Iby special license to the Fields, I went mad with rage.That you should be damned and I rewarded for the selfsamecrime was unspeakable! They could not drive me back.To be spiritually chained to earth would be bad enough, yetthat would have a mortal limit. Even Mors does not seemto know the date of the Second Call. A century on Earth isaccounted only an hour here. To wait around in futiletransitions from fear to hope—from hope to fear——”

“Why didn’t you go on when you had a chance”—againSatan interposed—“on toward that nice place called Paradise?”

“Dolores, you are my Paradise—lost and regained, thoughnot yet redeemed. I have come to redeem you.”

“Christ!” Malice sounded close behind the Satanic sneer.“Just what is your claim, redeemer?”

At last John Cabot answered him directly. “I want justicefor this woman-soul. I want it now. I demand thatyou release her.”

“You want? You demand? And you contend that shebelongs to the Fields, she compared with whom the ‘motherof harlots’ was a saint in a niche?”

“You lie!”

At the suppressed fury of John’s declaration, noxiousfumes began to spread from the Belial glare.

“A strong word to use over a mere disparity in point ofview. However, your compliment sounded genuine and Ithank you. Sorry that your demand must be denied. Lawof the land, you know.”

“The best thing about most laws is that they can bebroken,” John asserted. “I cannot conceive of a great intellectthat would not except this case, once it was explained.A woman who never had an unclean thought or an impulsethat was not wholly kind has been sent into Badlands, whileeach of those who contributed to her fall has been reinstatedin the opinion of men. A shop vulture has made a virtueof his vulturing. An alleged man of God——”

“Don’t go through the list,” His Majesty objected. “I’vehad many a laugh over the choice assortment. Doctor, lawyer,merchant, chief, richman, poorman, beggar-man——”

“Thief?” John interrupted in his turn. “I am the thief.And even I, the most culpable of all, have ‘come back’ inthe opinion of my fellows—have been rewarded as was everybodyconcerned in her ruin.”

“Yes, even down to that delightful old woman who was soanxious to get her gas bill paid.”

At the King’s interjection, Dolores sank back into thethrone-chair. Against its high back he leaned for support inhis loudening laughter.

John Cabot did not laugh. With each peal of Satan’smirth, his frown darkened.

“I am not afraid of you and your ridicule. If the double-standardrule is the law to which you refer—if that holdsbeyond the jurisdiction of Earth—then doubly do I intendto break it.”

“You intend? Really, you are—too funny—funnier thanall—the rest!” His Majesty struggled for control of hisrisibilities. “Allow me to say that your visit, although somethingof a surprise to one who does not often have ’em,is not unwelcome. It is, in fact, almost too gratifying to betrue. You’re a bold, if not bad man. I have need of yoursort. Of course, you’ll have to be born again. All goodmen must be regenerated down here.”

“You don’t intend, then—” Dolores half turned—“thathe shall go back?”

“My poor child, do you expect me to flout the gift ofProvidence—even one sent down like this, C. O. D.? Hehas about as much chance of going back, this snuffed flameof yours, as you yourself.”

Stiffening from his negligent pose, he seated himself uponone arm of the throne-chair and leaned over her confidentially.

“Mayhap you and I would have been even more companionablehad you appreciated how much I, too, have longedfor the coming of John Cabot. Perhaps it is foolish of me,but I find I’m just a bit jealous of your quondam lovers. I’dlike to have them all down here as sort of safety valves whenI get bad and mad. Having only John, I’d be less than inhumanto give up taking it out on him. Besides that greatexperiment on myself, there’s a lesser one I wish to try outon you. Now, now, sweet Grief, don’t worry! Nothingpainful. Rather one whose success will bring you delight.”

“Please to—tell me—what you mean?” faltered Dolores.

“I’ve noticed that when the only man a woman earthlingever really loved demises—shuffles quite beyond her reach,you know—she proceeds to love, as soon as she can locatehim, the second only ever man. I’d like to demonstrate thatthe rule holds down here. You wouldn’t be true to type ifyou didn’t have a lingering sort of affection for every one ofyour ex-onlies.”

“But I don’t see——”

“I make John die a second death before your eyes, inorder that he be regenerated unto sin. I crunch to dust thebones of his spirit. I tear to bits the sinews of his soul.When you see him an unrecognizable heap in the morgue ofGehenna, will you like me, do you suppose now, more orless?”

At her failure to reply, he sauntered toward the nearestmirror; there carefully adjusted his red cravat. Evidentlyreassured by the magnificence of his reflection, he addedamiably enough:

“That Judge Strang was no more a sport than am I. Hetook a long chance on you after one short look. After thesome few looks I’ve had, I’ll take a longer one. What sayyou, fair fiend? Be a sport, too. Come, let’s make it a bet!”

Her response was a worded moan. “Why, John—whydid you come?”

For a moment His Majesty considered the drooping, dusk-crownedhead.

“Evidently,” he made remark to whom it might concern,“she doesn’t consider mine a betting proposition.”

As if suddenly aware of the hellion guard cluttering thegreat room, he amused himself driving them back againstthe highly-charged curtains.

John Cabot mounted the dais steps; removed the girl-soul’shands from her face; held them while he bent to look intoher eyes.

“You are my mate,” he said. “You have been tried—tempted,perhaps. But I believe in you. You swore onceto believe in me. Do you remember? Come with me,Dolores. Let me fight your way up to the Fields as I foughtmine down. Have courage to come.”

“I’d only hold you back,” she sighed.

“The harder the fight, the dearer the victory,” he urged.“And we should be together. Does that mean nothing toyou? Whatever your fate, I should feel honored to shareit—to serve you through Eternity in atonement. Where faithlives there is love.”

“Faith?” A rasping sob shook her—or was it a laugh?“Faith, he says, is the fear of fools.”

“Faith is fear? I do not understand.”

“Yes. Fools pretend faith because they fear. But nobodyreally believes in anything down here. Everybody fears—fearsdespair. He’ll never let me go. You must leave me ifyou can. Lean low and listen. Later you’ll understand.”

She caught his arm; shook like a reed with her whisper.

“God sacrificed his only begotten Son, they say, to try tosave the world. You must sacrifice your hope of me to tryto save——”

“Damn you!”

The curse was addressed to the king—the first Doloresever had heard from the lips of John Cabot. Satan had approachedsoundlessly; with his charged forefinger and thumbhad flicked the intruder on the brow.

“Save your vitriol. I’m already damned,” he answeredwith consummate insolence.

John, blinking confusedly, straightened. The impulses ofhis late life still controlled him. With the flash of a puma’sinstinct, he leaped upon the First of Fiends.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Wrath had burned the bonds of John Cabot’s hard-learnedconstraint. A fury of resentment over the subjectionof Dolores controlled him. Supernatural might to avengeand save her seemed to come to him. Yet sudden as was hisleap, strong its impetus, that which was material of hisadversary had side-stepped neatly as though he were somemortal boxer in a squared circle.

“Positively, you annoy me,” commented Satan from thefar end of the dais.

“You demon dog, your spite is nothing to my righteousrage!”

Again John rushed the blasphemer with head lowered betweenhis shoulders; seized and attempted to bear him down.But face forward he collapsed upon the steps. His will tokill was conquered by its own futility. Nothing—quitenothing was in his grasp. A chuckle caused his glance tolift. Nearby stood the Tormentor as though untouched. Anopaque aura surrounded him. Thick fumes spread with hisbreath.

Cabot staggered to his feet. All too soon the realizationwhich Dolores had implored was being taught him. Whatmatter how righteous the cause—how violent his will foravengement? This was Too-Late Land.

Satan clapped his hands; commanded the guard.

“Seize the fool. Throw him into the Den of the Demented.Get him into shape for particular torment. Outwith him!”

“Wait.”

At Dolores’ word the guardsmen halted their rush.John fixed his eyes upon the regal figure rising from thethrone.

With her rose-adorned staff, upraised like the scepter ofthe queen she had been declared, the girl-shade commandedsilence. From her eyes, as from beacon candles behind darkpanes, shone the light of determination. The time had comefor her to test that early-morn resolve of matching herguile against that of His Satanic Majesty. The look sheleveled upon him was too subtle for even his super-sense todefine.

“Has Your Lowness duly considered?” she asked him.“You say you never waste power. This shade has provedat least initiative.”

“A powerful impudence, I call it, to break into our unhappylittle home in this—ah—vehement manner and invitemy intended, right before my eyes, to elope with him. Hedeserves the worst billet of the Hadean hordes.”

“Granted, sire. But if you draft him, isn’t he likely todistinguish himself among your conquering heroes? Is therenot a warning in his show of fight?”

“Why a warning? What could he do?”

“They tell me that the hold you have on your military isin the princely rewards offered to your veterans. And hasthe Great-I-Am Himself a better name for keeping Hispromises than you?”

Crossing to him, Dolores met his combative look with anexpression of affectionate concern.

“Don’t you see that you would put yourself under obligationto advance one whom, quite naturally, you wish todepose? Why not return him into the false security ofElysium? After you have come into your own, he will beone of your captives of state. You will then have the privilegeof wreaking your dislike on him as you see fit. Look onhim as end-of-the-season fruit. Let him ripen.”

“And be denied the taste of him now?” Satan licked hislips. “Is this a trick, she-fiend, to wrest him from my clutch?Have a care lest you, too, become disliked!”

“I am not afraid of that.” With a laugh that camestrangely from her lips—luring, assured, golden—sheplucked the rose-bud off her ankle and, from tip-toe, flickedit against his cheek. While placing it in his buttonhole, sheadded: “You brand your warriors. Wear my brand, thescarlet bud. You are mine, as I may be yours if only——”She drew away her laughing lips just as, almost, he hadaccepted their challenge.

“Courtesan!” he accused. “What has inspired you, all atonce, with the best way to intrigue me—to make me doubtyour truth and fear your artifice?”

“Perhaps I have not wished to intrigue you, as you say,before. Perhaps my artifice has been in concealing myself.Ah, Pluto, that even you have not guessed my trickery! Iwished to wait until sure of my own mind. Yours is sodominant, it is hard to be sure. Since what you have saidthis morning, I am ready to stand revealed. You havearoused what you see in my eyes. You should be the last todoubt. This is myself. The other was all pose—my bestasset on Earth.”

“You are worse than I thought,” he exulted. “I wasbeginning almost to believe in your decency, so consistentlydid you act. Then, after all, I am right?”

Again she laughed, this time with him. “Aren’t youalways right, you perpetual wrong? Of course there is noright or wrong to what I’m asking you. Call it my caprice.I’ve done a great deal to please you. Do one thing for me.”

“Make it something else, then.”

“Something else is never what one wishes.”

“But I suspect your request of being something more thana caprice.”

“That even I cannot deceive you!” With the chagrinedexclamation, she thrust her arm in his and drew him aside.Her head drooped, as if from embarrassment. In a low,hesitant voice, she confessed: “You are too keen for me.This request does matter to me. The truth is, I don’t wantmy ex-only, as you call him, down here. Don’t you knowenough of woman’s nature to appreciate how I feel? I can’thelp the way I was born. I am a harlot at heart. Sooneror later the bad habit of loving the old love might distractme from the new. You saw last night that any conquest hasits charms for me. Why not—-”

She paused, as if to contemplate a fresh idea. Then: “Ishall need concentration to satisfy Your Lowness’ hopes ofme and concentration will come easier with not the humblestof my ex-suitors to distract. General Cummings wasa deserter on Earth and, as you yourself said, once a deserteralways. Him, as well as John Cabot, you may treat withfuller effect after The Day. Why not send the old nuisancealong? And there is one other of whom I should like to berid.”

“Who, pray, may this other be?”

“My babe.”

Satan showed himself assailable by surprise. “Not theLittlest Devil? Now you have spoiled your argument. Ican’t believe——”

“You will when I explain. Ineffectual looking as is mychild, she interferes with my whole-heartedness for evil.She rouses soft feelings in me—impulses to protect the weakand helpless. I’ll find it hard to live down even the thoughtof her. To see her daily is a detriment. Focus that imaginationof yours, Pluto. Try to realize what you often musthave heard, that mother-love is the most enduring influencein the universe.”

“That’s one thing I’ve never been—a mother. Wish Ihad. I’d have given birth to some rare wastrels.” Hegrinned at the thought.

“Don’t you see my argument? You will grant the favorI ask? I dislike to plead as much as you, but I make this aplea. Give me a chance in the one sincerity of my life.”

“Your one sincerity?”

He bent low to catch her murmured reproach.

“That you should need to ask! I, too, feel that I have myone chance in you. If you are not strong enough to compelme——”

“One question.” His fingers snapped like a braceletaround her wrist. “Why have you been at such pains toarouse my jealousy of this weakling whom now you seemto despise?”

Deliciously she smiled. “Ah, you humorists who cannotsee the joke on yourselves! Once you said that I washumorous only in that I had no humor. Since, you havetaught me. Tell me, is not jealousy the rough stone thatwhets an edge of love on attraction?”

“I’d sort of hate to part with the Littlest Devil,” HisHighness tentated. “It has seemed almost like having a childof one’s own in the palace. If she were a boy, I don’tbelieve I could. Strange, that hankering in the heart of theworst of men and devils to reproduce himself in a son!”

He glanced up at his coat-of-arms, then back at her. Thepeculiar intensity of his look was unendurable. Her lidsdrooped over the consternation which she feared would showin her eyes. But she pressed her advantage.

“I’d like the babe to go along, for her sake as well as myown. Her crime was her parents’. You wouldn’t fancy thatthird-to-fourth generation rule if you’d ever had a child.Come, dear Devil, acknowledge that my reasons are good.Let me have my way this once. Afterward you mayhave——”

“Exactly what?”

She lifted her face, pale as a night flower, to the stronglight of his gaze.

“There is a question between us,” her lips murmuredreminder. “You can compel me, but you want my consent.You spoke just now of a sporting proposition. Very well,I’ll make you a bet. This favor I ask you against——”

She could not control the shiver that seized her. The spitof fork-tongued lightnings excused the droop of her face.For a moment the growl of thunder silenced her voice.

“I can keep promises, too. This favor against—anything—youwant—of me.”

She had pledged—herself. Her two hands slipped withinhis and clung, palm to palm. They and her voice shook withloathing which she prayed he might mistake for the tremorsof love.

“Dear, dear Devil,” she begged him.

His answer was in terms of action. He returned to thedais and seated himself in the throne-chair. He bade theguard unhand their prisoner and sent the dwarfs to summonthose whose release had been stipulated by the famed siren asher price. From a jewel-box he selected a fillet of pearlssupporting a single, magnificent drop of light, red as a tearof blood. This he placed upon Dolores’ night-black hair. Itwas, he made formal announcement, her betrothal crown.

Only John Cabot failed to salaam before the queen-elect.Straight to her he strode; bent that only she might hear hissuppressed appeal.

“Do you expect me to believe in your inconstancy?” heasked. “What force has crushed your courage, that youhesitate to trust your fate to me? Because I seemed to failyou on Earth, do you fear that I shall do so in this inter-world?Is there no voice in your heart to tell you howgladly I should have forfeited my passport to the Fields tospare you this profanation? They say that Shadow Landis only the waiting place. Wait with me, Dolores. Don’tcast yourself too low for later recall.”

The persistence of his faith both shamed and blessed thespirit-girl. Evidently he was struggling against the influenceof mal-appearances. How could she have doubted suchabsolving love? For herself, surely her Hell was the thereand the now. She must remember that his safety and that ofthe hapless atom born of their passion hung in the balance.Yet even him and their babe she must have sacrificed, ifnecessary, for the greater issue. The fate of the Universe,which the Maker seemed to have forgot, depended upon thepseudo-treachery of her looks and speech.

So far her determination had proved strong as desperate.What that victory were defeat? What that she slew thissturdy love of him she so longingly loved? The issue shemust not—dared not forget. To protect the great heart ofJohn Cabot from those thoughts of despair which, like ceaselessdrops of water on a stone, in time must wear away hishope; to spare him who had defied the first law of MysteryLand the realization of his own futility in the Lane ofLabors; to keep his forehead clean of that brand more significantthan the brand of Cain—the hate-sign of the Hadeanhordes; in saving him to send him as her messenger to warnthe Earth-blest of the Castling’s contemplated drive; throughhim to reach the ear of One said to be omnipotent and arouseHim from His lax protectorate——

Perhaps, if That Day was saved to righteousness, Hewould be told of her and how she had tried to do her part.As yesterday and to-day were so small a fraction of Eternity,with all life’s reparations possible in the vast vacuumof to-morrow, justice yet might be meted to Dolores.

His Majesty, she knew, had attended each word of John’splea. A single fault in the play of her part and her partialsuccess would end in failure. Not long enough for one ofhis dart-like thoughts must she consider the soul-hurt toherself. She, whom so often he had twitted for her simplicity,had pitted her intelligence against the Master Mind.Far better not to have attempted the deceit if she did notdeceive.

John she silenced with a mocking laugh. His amazementshe answered with assumed contempt. His protest she cutshort with ridicule.

“So you cannot progress for thought of me? Strange,when here in Gehenna I have out-progressed my penchantfor you! Yet until to-day I did not realize how sleazy yourform would look to me or how weak would sound yourmawkings. One’s taste is best cultured by contrast.”

Her glance toward the King was eloquent interpretation.

“Don’t reproach me with my shamelessness, I beg of you,”she anticipated him. “It is a point of pride with me. Away,you weary me! Let this convince you that my fancy for youdied with my body.”

She struck him with her jasper-like wand across the lips.At his low moan, the illusion of a red rose adorning itshandle went out.

Dolores, realizing that the light of his love also must havebeen snuffed, scarcely could repress an echo of his protestagainst her cruelty. Lest she fail in the climax of hertriumph, she turned from the sight of him; sank into theprime minister’s chair.

Her courage was reinforced when the dwarfs draggedCorporal Sam before the dais. The old soldier-soul’s shakenstate from only a few hours of “special treatment” accentedthe necessity of his immediate release.

In the parting with her babe she felt free to indulge inmore of naturalness. She had confessed a weakness therein the strength of her desire to overcome it. A moment sheheld the small shade in her arms. But the cling of little armsabout her neck choked her with the necessity of untwiningthem. So trustful, so young, so blameless, to be consignedto punishment! The crush of desolation which pressed hardon her heart might best be lifted by thought of a possibleday when she might see her child again—see her with hertrust, her youth, her blamelessness eternalized.

The precious salvage she consigned to John with not aword of her heartful adjuration that he be good to her, takecare of her, teach her that her mother had loved her, evenas she had him, her best beloved, far too well to have andhold.

No more did she risk the aside which she wished withsoldier Sam, in which to advise that he trust all his dreadknowledge to John Cabot. She felt sure, however, that hewould do so of his own accord. Once in the Fields, hisobject would be her own in sending him. Gallant himself,he soon would recognize gallantry and would give hisconfidence to John.

The King was issuing orders. An adequate guard was toserve as escort to the Elysian boundary, taking a wide detourto escape the shade patrol. The fact that such a transfernever before had been made need not concern them. Thelove-hound had blazed a trail from Elysium down. Let himblaze another from Gehenna up. They were to start at once.

Only John Cabot made his exit loathfully. After theothers had preceded him through the light-riven curtain, hepaused; turned. Dolores knew that to the last he hoped ofher. A gesture, a whisper, a sigh would have recalled himto full faith. He had meant what he said. Gladly would hehave exchanged or shared her fate until that dim-distantday when justice was to take the universe.

But she did not make the gesture, vent the whisper,breathe the sigh. Rather, she forced the false laugh whichthat hour had stood her in such good stead and turned,affecting to think him gone, to her Satanic suitor. Seductivelyshe leaned, as if to consummate the caress which John’sarrival had interrupted so short and yet so long a whilebefore.

At the downward swish of the hangings, however, shedrew back. The lilt of her laugh was lost in the realizationthat he who had come to find her had left her, lost. Moremoan than mirth it sounded at the thought that no lightningflash or whip of wind in the storm-ridden air outside couldscourge him as had her treachery.

At her change of attitude, Satan sat back and watched herwith unsmiling scrutiny.

“It is not too late to call them back if you regret the termsof our wager. ‘Anything’—wasn’t that your pledge?”

“But I do not wish them back. I am glad—so glad to berid of them.”

“And I. You acknowledge that I have won the bet?”

“Yes, Your Lowness. You have—won.”

Any show of triumph he subdued. Even that peculiarlycalculating expression in his eyes, which before had dismayedher, was covered by a sort of veil.

“The first thing I want of you,” said he quietly enough,“is your agreement that to-night shall be our nuptial night.I regret to dun a lady, yet I don’t like I. O. U.’s. Shall youfind it convenient to pay?”

CHAPTER XXIX

“And the sun became as sackcloth of hair and themoon became as blood; and the stars of heaven fellunto the earth, even as a figtree casteth her untimelyfigs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind; and theheavens departed as a scroll when it is rolled away;and every mountain and island were moved out oftheir places.”

Long ago, when first she had become an object of diabolicclemency, Dolores had supposed that, come a day, she wasto pay a price. When, after all the public pomp and privatepose of her regal rites, her new lord escorted her into thethrone-room—— Not until he stretched his arm in pridefulgesture toward the escutcheon over the dais—— Soul-sick,she realized then the sum and coinage of that price.

To her chamber through the late afternoon Adeline hadbrought reports of His Highness’ proclamation of the royalalliance. Although he could not quiet the unprecedentedstorm which had raged since high-noon and his electricianshad failed utterly to swing the imitation sun low enough tosend a single gleam through the clouds on this his weddingday, preparations had been rushed. To the farthest reachesof the kingdom great annunciators had blared through theshriek of winds the bans. Not a rookie of the Hadeanhordes, not a wench of the Wanton’s Well, not the mostvenomous whisperer of the Cage of In-Laws but knew thatthe Belial Bachelor was to change his state.

And the news was made gladsome by a decree for cessationof all punishment. For that eve the thought of despairwas taboo. The most fearing of shades was to be allowed abreath of hope. Even in this clemency, however, the Rule ofReversals would hold, according to the noble maid, since atdaybreak of the morrow all torments were to be resumed indouble force.

That Greater Gehenna should celebrate was not enough,however, to satisfy His Majesty’s festive mood. Earth mustjoin in the rejoicing over his signal success in the most intricateof games, even though the mortal participants mightnot be told the cause back of their debauch. Through freedistribution of Devil’s Dew, a negotiable, bottled quintessenceof his own most iniquitous spirits, which had become a recentoutput of distilleries under his direct control, there was to bestarted that night a series of riots destined to belt the globe,a spree of all nations that must have mortified the ancientBacchanalians, did wireless reports penetrate to their sectionof the Realm.

The ceremony had been brief and the guests few. OriginalSin, looking particularly hypocritical in his crackling high-churchrobes, officiated. Although none there was to giveaway the spirit bride, the lack was dismissed with the groom’sremark that, thanks to his inside knowledge of how to forcethe affections female, she was her own free gift.

Perhaps never in all marriages of convenience on Earthhad sounded so sacrilegious the transposed lines of theservice.

Would Dolores take Satan to love, honor and obey, fromeverlasting to everlasting, until he himself did them part?

She would.

And would Satan do his damnedest to love and cherishDolores?

Hell helping him, he would.

Almost before her change of estate could be realized, shewho had been despised of men stood before the Lower Worldwith a crown upon her head and a scepter in her hand.

Her lord’s first marital word had been a complaint. Whyhadn’t she worn the glittering amethystine costume whichhe had ordered as her bridal robe? Did she think herselfstill the shopgirl who had walked, once upon a time, intoVincent Seff’s “slaughter of the innocents” that she shouldcome to her nuptials unadorned by any of the stage jewelrywhich he had heaped upon her? Or had her late-learnedhumor dictated her dress of virgin white?

She suspected indulgence, if not actual approval, behindhis show of displeasure. Himself he had arrayed faultlesslyin cutaway effect. His two departures from Earth’s acceptedmode lay in a scarlet cravat and his boutonnière. In lieu ofthe conventional orange-blossom bud, he wore a tiny illuminatednectarine.

As to so many women-souls before her sacrificed uponthe matrimonial altar, the subsequent feast was to Doloresa tedious affair. Toasted in varied high-volt mixtures,praised for her vices in the retroactive terms of the damned,applauded uproariously for her inability to make brazenreply as the arch-mistress of deceit, she had striven throughcourse after course to keep up appearances. What thoughin the illusion of passion flowers that banked the board as acenterpiece she saw only the reproach in the dark eyes ofJohn Cabot? What though her only taste from the adroitfood-phantasies was the unsatisfying reminder that she mustnot regret her deception—must not allow herself to long forhim, lest her thought-clutch deter him from the brave deedsthat he must do? What though the only spirituous effect ofthe wine she quaffed was the realization that, with every half-hournow, the little party saved by her surrender must benearer that boundary over which not even the Prince of thePower of the Air might recall them? With her black demi-wattshe sipped the conviction that, in the emergency, shehad done the best she could; with her electro-cordial frappé,the hope that already John might understand—that all mightyet be well.

Now, with her gaze up-hung on the royal coat-of-arms,that conviction became as “sackcloth of hair” and the moonof her desire “as blood.” The stars of her hope-heaven fellunto the Earth, “even as a figtree casteth her untimely figswhen shaken by a mighty wind.” All be well? “As a scroll... when rolled away” was that sanguine possibility. Outof their places were moved her every mountain of resolveand island of faith.

She had declared herself ready to pay. Above was writthe price.

From out the design, as of ebony and amethyst, still shonethe giant’s crown in bas-relief. The names of Japheth, Shemand Ham continued to drip in ruby lights from the horns oftheir respective lines. The caption beneath blazed brilliantlythrough its sardonyx-thin lettering. Except for theomission of two words the text read as before, “SATAN THEFIRST AND LAST” had been cut to “SATAN THE FIRST.”

That so bold an announcement could be made by elision!No longer did Satan the First boast himself the Last.Through what roiled channels did his reasoning run?

“But—but——” Words at last came of her consternation.“I thought there could be no birth after the first death?”

He answered with guarded elation. “Someone you usedto believe in proved to you to-day that laws were made to bebroken. Surely I am the last whom that law of the first deathcould coerce—I who never have died.”

“Nor were you born, Your Lowness. You say you had nomother. Never have you been of the flesh, so how can youexpect——”

“I am not to be classed with the flesh. I am a god,” heinterrupted. “Haven’t there been children of other gods?Why, even the Great-I-Am had a morganatic son!”

Through a corridor of the palace he led her and into theprivate wing of whose magnificence she often had heard.Upon a divan sheened over as with an embroidered altar-clothhe placed her; with one elbow crooked around thehump of her knee, lolled at her feet; with a new possessorshipstroked her bare ankles and, at times, her throat andcheeks. The while, he descanted in detail upon what he nowrevealed as his “experiment.”

Only since meeting her had he foreseen a day when heshould find irksome his seat on the throne, when affairs ofstate would bring him greater ennui than official sins divertissem*nt.After The Day, when he had been acknowledgedover all and the Universe had been let loose in an unendingadministration of outlawry, would not he, as well as hisaides, be entitled to some reward of vice? And why continuein a career of perpetual exertion after his utmost had beendone? As though human nature could not be trusted toincrease in evil of its own impetus, once punitive bars werelaid! Should not he be freed to tread the path of dalliance—torealize some such gentle vices as he had seen to satisfy thedoughtiest devils of Earth?

Desire for an heir-apparent to his throne of late had grownin him. Could she not imagine the outcome of his ambition—ayouthful demon born to dominance, bred to brutality,schooled to undreamt possibilities of fiendishness? Strongas steel in mental culpability, he should have the “chance”denied his self-made sire. Never should he know, henceshould not fear defeat. With a super-divine intolerance, hewould accept and hold his sovereignty. Although of thespirit, he should inherit a talent for strong visibility, takinghis form from his father and from his mother a subtletyof appeal such as god nor man yet had possessed. A beautyof countenance irresistible should be his—features of marblepale as the ghosts of Dolores’ victims—lips that quiveredfrom the very delicacy of the lies they lied, eyes that veiledin mists of mercy the utmost truculence.

Could she not see the child of his imagination? Let heropen wide those crime-dark eyes of hers; to-night let hismoth-like fancies bask in their purple flame.

When he, leaning against her, lifted himself to try histhought, the bride-soul clutched her forehead and shudderedback among the pillows as if to shield brain, as well as eyes.Yet even to her own ears her protest sounded both sincereand false.

“You must be mad—mad—to dream of such a thing.”

Was not the inspiration of all dreams mere madness? heasked her. And was not that love which he aspired to feelthe first symptom of mental derangement? As for love’sclimax—as for passion——

Always had he envied mortal men their carnal appetites.There was nothing to being the King of Evil if he couldn’thave all the vices. For æons had he hankered to glut himselfwith food, and drink distorted images into his mind.Now he hankered—— Oh, by no means to weaken himselfwith this love over which she oh’d and ah’d! Really, though,didn’t it seem too bad that he who had invented loveless lustand incited it daily in a million earthlings, should enjoy itonly vicariously? Even before she had come to ShadowLand, he confessed, he had felt the need of a second-worstemotion. That night of the tale of her surrender to JohnCabot he’d decided on its nature. To think of the thousandsof years he’d wasted! To have been the two ultimates, archangeland arch-fiend, without having been intermediate man!

As the lasciviousness of his look intensified, Dolores realizedin herself a certain sympathy. Appalled by its drawingpower, she reminded herself that only chaste aspirationsmight conquer the crave for evil to which all mankind isheir. Her lips formed to the names of her quondamguardian companions.

“Innocentia, I do not wish to know these dreadful things.Save me from the knowledge, dear, dear Amor.”

His Majesty’s chuckle sounded. They were gone forever,the pet pests, he exulted. Ignorance should no longer be herbliss. ’T were folly for her not to be wise. Why shirkresponsibility for the idea born of their acquaintance—onewickeder, therefore more seducing, than any he alone hadconceived?

His further explication scorched her mind more hotlythan did his breath her cheek. Physical desire he might nothave. Yet was not its source, more than in the case of otherpassions, a state of mind? Irrefutable proof lay in the factthat desire wakened or slept as mortals fell in or out of love.Did not the city rake, accustomed to think of satisfactionas a necessity of his being, indulge it without love? And thelibertine husband—why did he seek it from fresh subjects ifnot that his mind, wearied of his wife, must be freshlyinspired?

With every tale told him by Dolores these past nights andnights, Satan had measured his mentality by that of each ofher earthly Don Juans. Averse at first to the weakness oflove, he had come to recognize it as the match which wouldfire his affections and, thence, his desire. When he consideredthe state of mind into which he could get throughhate——

He had come to the acknowledgment that, without love, hehad missed mightily. Now, he longed to strike the ineffectuallooking lucifer. Since, however, any satisfaction or outcomeof their alliance must result, more than in mortalalliances, from a state of mind, he wished Dolores also tolong for love. That was why he plead when he might compel.He could not risk an heir warped in his evil nature as hadbeen the Cabots’ in body. No toy pace-setter for the sins ofSatan the Second!

She was the match to fire his imagination, he told her.She was the seemingly insipid drink which——

He interrupted himself to lick his lips. That fellow Seffwas right. One needed a nectarine. She was his nectarine.She was very visible, as yet the most material of shades.The ways of the world still controlled her. Once his wisheswere her own, she would of her own accord lift the strongercup to his lips; would press the cheek of ripe fruit againsthis teeth. Already she had felt an impulse toward him. Nouse for her to deny that in the throne-room that afternoon,just before they had been interrupted——

“No. No.” The very necessity of Dolores’ denial, howeveritalicized in her consciousness the knowledge that shelied.

As Satan passed his hand under her arm and pressed herbust, she shrank from him with moaned aversion for thethought back of the caress. He was like Vincent Seff. Theoffense had been the shopman’s on that first day so verylong ago, when she had begun to learn of men. Then, asnow, she had been speechless from apprehension. Had thatapprehension come from subconscious knowledge of herselfmore than of the man?

On Earth she had lived down certain inherent tendenciesbecause she had not understood. From His Highness’ firsttouch she had trembled, even as on that day in Dr. Willard’sstudy when she had implored the hunting parson of AllMankind to teach her the religion said to cover game likeher from just such hunters as he. The carnality of mortalsshe had come to excuse because component of the flesh.Since, instead, it was shown her to be component of themind—since she was protected no longer by her innocence—sincehere in the inter-world she was hunted by the mostexpert of mental sportsmen——

Dolores strove for perspective. How ghoulish an ambition,this desire of Satan for desire! What could be moreinhuman than a passion of the imagination without hope?And yet he hoped. What was his hope?

An odious thrill answered the question—a thrill which sheknew to be the first farthing of the price she was to pay.The sum total, then, would be the development of her evilpossibilities to the utter obliteration of the good. All thatshe had saved of her better self from her late estate wasto be burned to dross by that recognized flicker of passionwhich had lit this conflagration. The King, by the heat ofhis diabolical imaginings, would kindle, then fan her withthe winds of his swift thought. Her spiritual inflammabilitywas her real value to him, as had been that of her body tomen. He had praised, as had they, her beauty, her naïveté,her teasing silences, but had passed without a glance othersas exceptional as she. That worst of her which, in thephysical, had wrecked her chances on Earth, would wreckthose mental which she still had hoped to realize in ShadowLand. Even though she saved The Day to the Great-I-Am,she would not by then be a fit subject for reward. Spirituallyruined, she would be no mate for John Cabot. Well it wasthat she had not known in time the fullness of the price,else might she have been too nigg*rd-souled to contract topay.

Forewarned in these premonitions of her fate, the spirit-girlfelt, as never in the past, her own impotency. Innocentiagone, the love-lad Amor gone, her babe, gallant Old Sam,and now John—all who might have helped her she had sentbeyond recall. Evil expectation was a compelling force; thatshe had learned from Clarke Shayle. Even now, the MasterMind was compelling her—vehemently, evilly expecting ofher. Would she give?

“I am a perfectly free immoral agent,” His Majestyboasted. “You believe that, don’t you, my poor child? Ican seize your mind and hold it to the last split-second ofEternity, whether you will or no. You liked that moleculeof suppressed power in your love-hound. Aren’t youappealed to by the fact that I am at this moment suppressingall the molecules of power that have run the world?”

Dolores felt shocked by several perceptions. He hadlicked his lips; had called her “my child”; had concentratedhis magnetism upon her; with deliberate intent, was attractingher through the same means used unintentionally by JohnCabot. As he argued, he bent upon her a smile no moreyouthful or friendly than that of the lawyer who had wonher confidence only to spoil John’s life and her own. Andhe wore a scarlet tie.

He was, in his conversion of her to his will, like each oneof those mortal men who had converted her. In one consummatepersonality he combined their characteristics.Everyman was a part of him. He was all men.

Since detached integrals of himself had brought her irrevocablyto grief on Earth, what chance had she to resist himas a whole? Despite her guard, the despondent thought musthave shown in her face.

“You do not need to answer in words.” His Highnesspressed the point. “The idea of rectitude, grafted ontowomen by convention, embarrasses you. Don’t think ofyielding to me. Think, rather, of yielding to your worseand greater self. You, so lately and so rarely physical,must share my mental hunger for the appetites. You willfeed me with thoughts of fulfillment? This passion that youhave aroused in mortal males, since born of the mind, onthe mind must have violent recoil. You will tell me—willteach me? I shall not bore you. If the response of mendiverted you, how much greater the diversion of a god’sresponse! Is it not an ambition worthy even of you—toinspire the passion of an immortal whose fervor has notbeen spent in birth or life or death? Think of my tirelessexcesses, of my ingenuity, of my eternal crave for you!Think of the procreative possibilities of a superman!”

“You explained to me yourself,” the girl-soul sobbed, “thatnothing could be created in Gehenna—that down here it isalways too late.”

“It is never too late for me to do worse.”

“But this heir you speak of—must he not come of a motheras well as a father? I, at least, am subject to the rules thatgovern earthlings. I have been born of the flesh and I havedied.”

“You quibble.” His frown showed irritation. “Aren’tyou lifted to my estate by our alliance? What you weredoesn’t matter, except that your late mortality brings newvigor to our line. What you are becomes merged in me.What you shall be——”

The hand that pressed up her arm and gripped her neckpricked as with many needles from his impatience. Her headhe drew backward, as he lifted to his knees on the couch andleaned over her. Her eyes dilated under the close gaze ofhis. Her lips moved to the syllables of his slow, lowdeclaration.

“When the thought-lust in you has conquered your affectations—fromthe moment of the consummation of the unionof our minds—you shall be a goddess—my goddess—foraye.”

Strangely enough, his egotism did not offend her. Anexpression of power, it bade fair to convince her. Warningherself that she must not be convinced, she tried to get fromhis grasp.

But he held her. “I’d love to love you, sweet Grief,” hemurmured close to her lips. “Ask me to kiss you, Dolores,as once you asked a man of Earth. Beg me to take you, youdevil’s desire. Let our moment of forever start now.”

His reminder helped her to tear her will from his andthrow it, like a tangible thing, to the thought of John. Pushinghim away, she found voice to defy him.

“I’ll never ask you. That moment never can start.”

“Fair fiend, don’t try me too far. I want to want you. Idesire desire.”

As his fingers closed around Dolores’ throat, she wasweakened by the thought of strangling. She could not speak,either to deny or implore.

“And you,” he rasped, “shall want me to want you untilyou’ll pray that your mind may burn to ash from its ownardor. Or will you teach me willingly—inspire me as youbest know how? I prefer to be your lover—to miss not anibble of that smooth cheek, my luscious nectarine. But Iam also your legal lord. And I have tutored too many legallords of Earth in their brutalities to miss my divine rightnow. I am your master. Ask me to kiss you, slave.”

Dolores strove for the sort of courage that had enabled herbefore to repel him. Just one strong, good thought mightrelease her. From the least likely source—his clutch of her—itcame. Baby fingers had clung tight about her throat afew hours since. She was a mother, and a mother wasenslaved only by her motherhood. She freed herself of hisgrip; struggled to her feet; started across the room.

“My wager did not include wants of my own,” she defiedhim. “You ask more than I can pay.”

“More? I haven’t begun to ask!”

From the closeness of his voice she realized without glancingback that he was following. The strength of her goodthought was scattered by panic. All she could do was toflee.

She hurried to the windows, but found them shutteredagainst the storm. Behind object after object of the roomshe took a stand, only to desert it on his near approach.

He, like a fate evil, leisurely, sure to overtake, pursued.He laughed from excess of exhilaration when the inevitableoccurred. Her long tulle-like veil caught about the wingedfoot of an illusion of Mercury. As though by jealousy ofthe speed god she was tripped; was about to fall. He caughther.

“Why did you have to stop? This has been wonderful—nevercould be so wonderful again! Whatever inspired youwith the knowledge that the way to ask is to deny?”

Freeing the veil, he wrapped it around and around her,binding her hands to her sides.

“Your intuition is keener than all my keenness,” hepanted. “Of course the fleeing woman is the woman onemust overtake. To ask me you have aroused me to ask you.Your lips, Dolores—I ask your lips.”

He flung her down; knotted the ends of the scarf abouther sandals; crowded over her. The lecherous look of himsilenced any protest. His eyes were aflame and from hiswhole person fumed that ruddy effluvium which came of hisconcentration.

As measured by the slow approach of his face to hers, adeath-time of dreading thoughts preoccupied Dolores.Fragile as were her bonds, she could not throw them off.Her resistance, she knew, was weakening. Suppose her mindconsented; what then?

Repeatedly had he forced her to his evil will; at times hadjustified his boast of making her like—almost love him. Nowhe was overcoming her as by a drug, none the easier to resistbecause she knew it to be the soporific of sin. Did soul-lust,then, beget soul-lust? Could he make her crave him to somemental excess? Could spirit be welded with spirit in suchinfernal way that the conscience would be raped as bodieswere raped on Earth—ruined for progress and admittanceamong unsullied consciences after That Day?

And the outcome of such a ghoulish union? What mannerof offspring would be theirs—if offspring indeed there mightbe—child-fiend incarnate—spirit-spawn of the passion of anunbodied god?

For her to have begotten the heir-apparent of Gehenna—thatwould prove righteous the Judgments of Men, evenshould the Greater Judge consider revoking her decree.Never again could she hope to see John Cabot and her babe.

And yet—and yet——

She had fought her fight with such strength as she couldcommand. What though she lost her own immortal soulthrough weakness—had not weakness as well as strengthbeen given unto her? She had not been wasted. She hadsaved those two best-beloved. And, in saving them, hadshe not saved the greater part of herself? All her loyaltyhad gone with John. Their babe was the bloom of herheart, that “one, half-blown rose” of the doomed gardener’splea. The safety of them who were all the good in her shehad bought. Surely the rest of her did not matter much.Why now haggle over the price?

The query dismissed her resistance. Her mind opened toher master’s mind, her eyes to his eyes, her lips to his lips.A hideous impulse moved her, like the mania to leap fromsome incalculable height. Thought-pulse for thought-pulse,her sensation roused to his. A moan of torturing expectanceescaped her.... She closed her eyes....

She wanted to want him.

In the blackness, Dolores saw the blacker truth. Herswooning sense of obligation to self was shocked into revival.Not him so much as something in herself must she resist—thatdesire put in woman to be mothers of men. Responsemeant utter degradation. More culpable than he who hadnot known the uplift of true love, she would sink lower farin hate’s degeneration. Down and down ... always down... forever and forever down....

“I am a woman soul—I must have love to live, not lust!”

With the cry, she tore herself out of his grasp. And asshe regained her feet, the bonds that had seemed so strong,broke apart, like dampened tissue.

“Vampire.”

His Highness’ hands clutched for her loosened hair. Asagain she fled him, he leaped in pursuit; abetted his stepswith his hands; pulled himself forward with grasps of thisand that. When he saw that she was trying the entrancedoor, he stopped in derisive anticipation of her return. Agleaming object from his pocket he waved at her, as illustrationof the mental ban:

“The key, my queen—come get the key.”

His chortles loudened at her desperate exclamation:

“If only I could pray!”

Abruptly, however, he ceased to laugh. He stood alone inthe chamber. The locked door had opened to his captivebride. She had passed into the hall.

He followed. Nearer animal instincts than ever in hispast, his tall form bent until he ran on toes and finger-tips.Through the private hallway he raced after her—along thecentral corridor of the palace into the throne-room.

The great auditorium was dark, except for the jewel-voltageof the altered Mephistophelian coat-of-arms. Withintent to point its full significance, the All-Man headed offhis quarry from doors and windows and drove her towardthe dais. There he seized the back-waving banner of herhair and dragged her up the steps. With his free hand hegestured upward.

“Your artistry is unexcelled, Queen Dolores—your senseof fitness finer than mine own. That you should lead mehere is a right royal inspiration.”

Further excited by her struggles, he laughed the louder.Sinking on one knee, he again crowded over her.

“You have taught me and I have learned. No longer doI ask. I take. Lo, at this touch of you, resistant, I feel—Ifeel! Your life—at this taste of them—a-ah, almost do Itaste! At last, fiend-houri—at last—at last—our eternalmoment has begun.”

As he held her head to the step, Dolores saw that the hornswhich a few minutes before had been neatly trimmed, wereshowing through his hair. Not daring to face the compellingpower which had made possible this phenomenon,she shifted her gaze, first to the escutcheon, then quicklyto the dome.

“If only I knew you, God!”

“That name in my presence again?” Irony followed theBelialic snarl. “Why hang back for an introduction if youbelieve the Great-I-Am stronger than I? It wouldn’t be thefirst time total stranger had rescued damsel in distress. Whynot ask Him, little heathen? It will do no harm to ask.”

Unloosening his hand from her hair, he jerked her to herfeet. Dolores, not knowing what next he might will, backedto the wall. There, with eyes and arms uplifted, she actedin earnest upon his mocking advice.

“God save me,” she voiced her first prayer. “I am sinking.I shall be lost. Are you there, O God? Only you cansave my soul.”

Higher than the arch-blasphemer’s shrieks of derision,fugued the storm winds without. At their demand, the entrancedoors swung wide; admitted them. Across the greatroom they swept, gentling only at the flutter of veilings aboutthe girl-soul at bay against the wall.

Close after them lightnings slashed the darkness. Behindher head, from tip to tip of her upraised hands, thence toher sandled feet, they concentrated in rays of blinding light.

Crouched to spring, Satan fell back as if struck. In thedown-shed blaze his face worked with superstition. Hiswhine of a maddened dog slashed across the eyes with awhip, ended in two gasped words.

“The Cross!”

Into power unmeasured by watts or kilowatts increasedthe rays. They irradiated the face of her whose shape theyframed with a beauty never before seen in Gehenna—thebeauty of realized hope.

The uproar of the storm concentrated in one stupendouscrash. From out the contrasting stillnesses, therethen spoke a voice calmer and deeper than the deepest toneof the sea—“a voice ... as the voice of many waters and... of a great thunder and ... of harpers harping withtheir harps”:

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

Prone fell the Destroyer, lest he be destroyed. Face downwardbefore that sign, which was the sign of his one fear,he writhed upon the floor. From his forked tongue of asnake hissed threats and pleas:

“Go away! How dare you trespass into the kingdom Ihave made for myself? Don’t blast me. You promised timeuntil Judgment. I’ll give up the girl-shade. I’ll do anythingyou say. Don’t blast me now. I might, you know, repent.”

Without daring to look up, he tugged at the hem ofDolores’ robe.

“You’re to go—to leave Gehenna,” he upflung in hisimmortal fright. “Don’t wait to prepare. Take this signetring. It will pass you through the gates. Hurry, lest youruin me with the rest of those that craved you. Go, Dolores.As you love me—as you hate—for Hell’s sake, go!”

For long after she had gone he lay. Only his lips moved,muttering.

“He could have finished me that time. He must havecertain powers of His own, like—like her. Since He cancome and go at will, I wonder why He waits. To-night—Ifeel afraid—that my Great Intention——”

The winds sounded to be subsiding. Evidently they hadroused in his spirit-bride’s defense. In time he risked aglance toward the Sign. Entirely it had faded. Not aglimmer of it remained to place that picture of wondrousloveliness which lately it had lit.

A sob racked His Lowness. His hands searched about,as though for some treasure he had lost.

“Dolores, Dolores, Grief to Men and me. What a fate,to learn love from the loss of it!”

His fingers found something to clutch. Sitting up, heexamined what they contained—fragments of the illusionof her veil. He bathed his face in them; swayed sensuouslyto the feel of them.

“Even the mist of your memory weakens me. Wasted—you—whenI may never be so bad again?”

He became interested in a stinging sensation in one eyenever felt before. With a forefinger he touched the lid. Itstip was not moist. Yet the pressure within increased. Excitementcaught him as he realized what must be about tooccur. He lifted his voice in a shouted command.

“Holder of the Tear Bowl! Quick—to hand—the Bowl!”

When only the reverberations of his voice made response,he bemoaned the lost opportunity.

“Through the sorrows of all ages to expect it, only that,when it comes, none should be here to catch it!”

It fell. A great, gleaming, heavy drop, it slipped frombeneath its lid. Salt as brine, it smarted as it rolled downhis cheek. Yet no watery, crocodile effluence was this. Itdid not spatter on the floor. Lasting as a diamond it looked.

Carefully he picked it up. Solemnly he examined it. Thistear that he had shed—his first—was of that sincerest sort,a tear of pity for himself.

The while, straight and swift as the spirit’s cry, Doloreshad fled the palace. Out of the portal and through the gateshe ran, past darting demons abroad to enjoy the fury ofthe storm. A slim creature in white gleaming through theblackness, she fluttered the imagination of a group of celebrantsstaggering from an overplus of draughts inhaled to theconsort of the King. With raucous cries and out-clutchinghands, several pursued her. But too slow were they, or toofleet she.

At the Gehennan gates, the guard fell back, advised by theevil eye of the royal signet ring. Once safely outside, sheturned and flung the blazing trophy back to them.

Seemingly alone, she felt the presence of guards strongerthan they and more spiritual than herself. These she did notfear to trust, so tenderly did shadowy wings seem to surroundher, so firmly was she steadied from stumbling, sowise was the counsel she heard. Although the storm stillraged, lightnings concentrated before her and illumined herway, as up and up she sped.

And with her sped happy thoughts. John she soon shouldfind. That she knew. Her feet were swift from lightsomenessand he could not have progressed far, all weighted as hewas by the burden of his disappointment. Amor and Innocentia—evennow her sweet comrades must be seeking her.All things of her they knew and never for long had theydeserted her. Since they were not born of Earth, they mustbe well acquainted with the by-paths of this strange Beyond.Should the way to John prove difficult, the love-lad wouldlead her aright. And if reproach still looked from outthe soul of him she had forsworn, Innocentia wouldappeal. John and their babe she soon should find and allbe well.

Broader and brighter before her shafted that penetratingLight whose rays she had seen to reach the soddenest scenesof Earth and the dankest depths of the Lower Land. Now itdispersed the shadows from her dreading heart and darkenedmind.

Her former nescience, then, had not mattered to the Great-I-Am!He had known her all along; had deplored herplight; had awaited her wish for an introduction. That restraintwhich so had fascinated her in one of Earth was butan impulse from infinite restraint. No longer need she fearfor the fate of the Universe. The All-Power which hadrestrained itself toward her that she might work out herown development, would strike when the souls of men criedout, even as she had cried, their dependence. Come The Day,His Majesty would fail of his own impotency. Faith, then,was not the fear of fools. Faith was the courage of godsand men, a heritage divine.

No voice of sad women or of sobbing winds was Dolores’as, peering and hurrying, her joy lifted in fragments of lineslearned from a singer on Earth.

“Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom....”

Now a flash of white through whiteness, she sped andsang:

“The night is dark and I am far from home....”

Into the land of hope—into air so vital that realizationseemed already reached—into a life of no more sorrows, nomore tears——

“Lead Thou me on.”

From neither sun nor moon came the glory that lit thegirl-soul’s way. She knew and knew. “Home” the Lightwas leading her. From it she had come. To it she now wasreturned.

The strength of that Hell she had fled was only hate.

The Light—the Light was Love.

THE END