CHAPTER VI

*

*SIDE LIGHTS*

"Mrs. Chenoweth Maxwell would be very glad to see Mr. Francis Granthope next Friday evening at nine o'clock for an informal Chinese costume supper. Kindly arrive masked."

This invitation marked a climacteric in Granthope's social career. It was supplemented by an explanation over the telephone that left no doubt in the mind of the palmist as to the genuineness and friendliness of its cordiality. He had appeared already at several assemblies of the smarter set and had, by this time, a considerable acquaintance with the fashionable side of town. Of the information thus acquired he had made good use in his business. He had always gone, however, in his professional capacity as a paid entertainer; and no matter how considerately he had been treated, the fact that he was not present as a guest had always been obvious. He was in a class with the operatic star who consents to sing in private and maintains her delicate position of unstable social equilibrium with sensitive self-consciousness. In his rise from obscurity, at first, he had been pleased with such invitations, seeing that they brought him money and an increasing fame. He was now sought after as a picturesque and personable character. Women evinced a fearful delight in his presence; they treated him sometimes as if he were a handsome highwayman, tamed to drawing-room amenities, sometimes as they treated those mysterious Hindus in robes and turbans who occasionally appeared to prate of esoteric faiths in the salons of the Illuminati.

Granthope's sense of humor and his cynical view of life, had, so far, been sufficient to preserve his equanimity at the threshold of fashionable society. His equivocal position was tolerable, for he knew well enough what a sham the whole game was, and how artificial was the social position which permitted a woman to snub him or patronize him in public, and did not prevent her following him up in private. He had seen ladies raise their eyebrows at his appearance in the Western Addition, who had visited him for a chance to talk to him with astonishing egotism.

There was a strain in him, however, the heritage of some unknown ancestry, that, since meeting Miss Payson, began to give him more and more discomfort in the presence of such company. He had risen above the level of the mere professional entertainer, and had become fastidious. Clytie had met him upon terms of equality. Her frankness had flattered him, and her implied promise of friendship was like the opening of a door which had, hitherto, always been shut to him.

Mrs. Maxwell's bid, therefore, was a distinct advance, and he welcomed it, not so much because it unlocked for him a new sort of recognition, as that it furthered the game he had in hand. He could scarce have defined that game to himself. He was playing neither for position nor money nor power--his sport was perhaps as purely intellectual as that of chess, a delight in the pitting of his mind against others.

Mrs. Maxwell, with the tact of a woman of sensibility, had made it plain to him that he was invited for his own sake, upon terms of hospitality. As a lion, yes, she could not deny that. She confessed that she wished to tell people that he was coming--but he would not be annoyed by requests for entertainment. With another, he might have suspected that this was only a subterfuge to avoid the necessity of paying him his price, but Mrs. Maxwell's character was too well known to him for that possibility to be entertained.

He set himself, therefore, to obtain a costume for the affair at the "House of Increasing Prosperity," known to Americans as the shop of Chew Hing Lung and Company. With the assistance of the affable and discerning Li Go Ball, the only Chinese in the quarter who seemed to know what he required, Granthope selected his outfit, a costume of the character worn by the more prosperous merchant class of Celestials.

Granthope had fitted up the room next beyond his studio for a bed-chamber and sitting-room, access to it being had through the heavy velvet arras concealing the door between the two apartments. The place was severely masculine in its appointments and order, but bespoke the tasteful employment of considerable money. Here he had his library also, for since his earliest youth he had been a great reader. Prominent on its shelves were many volumes of medical books, and, to offset this sobriety, the lives and memoirs of the famous adventurers of history--Casanova, Cagliostro, Fenestre, Abbe Faublas, Benvenuto Cellini, Salvator Rosa, Chevalier d'Eon.

A massive Jewish seven-branch candlestick illuminated the place this evening, splashing with yellow lights the carved gilded frame of a huge oval mirror, glowing on the belly of a bronze vase, enriching the depths of color in the dull green walls, smoldering in the warm tones of the great Persian rug on the floor, twinkling upon the polished surface of the heavy mahogany table in the center of the room. But it was concentrated chiefly upon the gorgeous oriental hues where his Chinese costume was flung, flaming upon the couch. There the colors were commingled as on an artist's palette, cold steel blue, pale lemon yellow, olive green that was nearly old gold, lavender that was almost pink in the candle-light, a circle of red inside the cap, and flashes of pale cream-colored bamboo paper here and there.

He had already put on the silken undersuit, a costume in itself, with its straight-falling lines and complementary colors. Fancy Gray was helping him with the other garments, enjoying it as much as a little girl dressing a doll, trying on each article herself first and posing in it before the mirror.

First, she wrapped the bottom of his lavender trousers about his ankles, over white cotton socks, tying them close with the silk bands, carefully concealing the knot and ends as Go Ball had instructed him. She held the black boat-shaped satin shoes for him to put on. Next she tied about his waist the pale yellow sash so that both ends met at the side and hung together in two striped party-colored ends. Then the short, padded jacket, and over all this the long, steel-blue, brocaded silk robe, caught in at the waist with a corded belt. Lastly the olive-green coat patterned with brocaded mons containing the swastika, and with long sleeves almost hiding the tips of his fingers. Upon its gold bullet-shaped buttons she hung the tasseled spectacle-case and his ivory snuff-box.

"Oh, Frank, I forgot!" said Fancy, as she paused with his wig of horse-hair eked out with braided silk threads, in her hand. "Lucie was here to-day."

Granthope was at the mirror, disguising himself with a long, drooping mustache and thin goatee. He put down his bottle of liquid gum and turned to her.

"What did she say?"

"Why, she said she didn't have time to wait, and didn't want to tell me anything."

"Why didn't she write?"

"Said she was afraid to. You're to manage some way to see her to-night, if you can, and she has a tip for you."

"H'm!" Granthope, with Fancy's assistance, drew on the wig, and clapped over his black satin skullcap with its red coral button atop. Then he paused again reflectively.

"It must be something important. If I can only get hold of some good scandal in this 'four hundred' crowd I can have some fun with 'em."

"I should be afraid to trust these ladies' maids; they might give you away any time, and then where'd you be? That would be a pretty good scandal, itself." Fancy shook her head.

"Aren't they all in love with me?" he said, smiling grimly.

Fancy looked dubious. "That's just the trouble. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'"

Granthope now laughed outright. "Fancy, when you get literary you're too funny for words."

She bridled, stuck out her little pointed tongue at him, and walked into the front office, where she sat down to attend to some details of her own work. At last she finished her writing and went to the closet to put on her hat and jacket.

"Oh, Frank!" she called out.

"Yes, Fancy!"

"You don't think I'm jealous, do you?"

"Yes!" he laughed.

She appeared at the doorway and called again:

"Mr. Granthope!" He was busy, and did not answer.

"Mr. Granthope!"

He looked up, now, to see her put her thumb to her nose with a playfully derisive gesture, such as gamins use.

He put his head back and laughed.

Then she looked at him seriously, saying, "When I am, you'll never know it. I'm not afraid of ladies' maids. When you really get into your own class it will be time enough for me to worry. But I wish you wouldn't use those girls. They're all cats, and they'll scratch!"

She was standing before the mirror inside the closet door, with her hat pin between her lips, adjusting her toque to the masses of her russet hair, when there came a knock at the hall door. She looked round and raised her eyebrows, then, after closing the door to the anteroom of the studio, she called "Come in!"

Madam Spoll, in a black silk gown covered with a raglan, entered. She wore a man's small, low-crowned, Derby hat trimmed with a yellow bird's wing.

"How d'you do?" said Fancy, not too cordially.

"Good evening," Madam Spoll panted; then, as her breath was spent with climbing the stairs, she dropped into a chair and gasped heavily. Fancy went on with her preparations without further attention to her visitor.

"Frank in?" was Madam Spoll's query as soon as she could breathe.

"Meaning Mr. Granthope?" said Fancy airily.

"You know who I mean well enough!" was her pettish reply.

"Oh, _do_ I?"--and Fancy, her costume now in readiness for the street, walked jauntily into the anteroom and knocked at the door. "Madam Spoll is here to see you," she called out.

"Just a moment," he answered.

Fancy, pulling her jacket behind, wriggling, and smoothing down her skirt over her hips, walked to the window and cast a glance out. Then she slammed the drawers of her desk, put a hair-pin between the leaves of her novel, straightened her pen-holders on the stand, stoppered a red-ink bottle, and marched out without looking to the left or to the right.

Madam Spoll glared at her in silence till she had gone; and then, with an agility extraordinary in so stout a woman, she sprang to the closet, opened the door and picked up an envelope lying on the floor. It had been opened. She took the letter out, gave it a hurried glance and then returned to her seat, stuffing the paper up under her basque.

The letter was short enough for her practised eye to master the contents almost at a glance. It ran:

My dear Mr. Granthope:--I hope you didn't take offense at my frankness the other day--if I was too candid don't misinterpret it and my interest in you. Sometime I may explain it more intelligently, but for the present believe me to be, Your friend, CLYTIE PAYSON.

Granthope came out after she had concealed the note. He was fully dressed and almost unrecognizable in his costume. He walked gracefully, with the light-footed stride of a mandarin, and saluted her with mock gravity. Madam Spoll stared at him with her mouth open. For a moment she did not appear to know him. Then she chuckled.

"For the land's sakes, what are you up to now, Frank? Doing the Chinese doctor's stunt and selling powdered sea-horses?"

He laughed at her surprise. "No, I'm doing society," he explained.

"Do 'em good, then! Lord, you are a-butting in this time, ain't you! I wouldn't know you from a Sam Yup highbinder on a Chiny New Year in that rig! What is it, a fancy-dress ball at the Mechanics' Pavilion?"

"Worse than that," he laughed; "this is a private supper-party in costume and I am a guest."

"Lord, you are getting on, for fair! You ain't been conning them swell girls for nothing, have you? And, to be frank with you, I always thought you was after something very different. I was kind of afraid they'd spoil you, too. It's a good graft, Frank, and if I can do anything to give you a lift, just say the word."

"Thanks," he said dryly, taking a seat in front of her and pulling his long sleeves up to his wrist.

She kept her eyes upon him, as if fascinated by the gorgeousness of his costume, seemingly a little in fear of his elegant manners as well. Then she broke out, pettishly:

"Say, Fancy's getting pretty fresh, seems to me. She's a very different girl from what she was when she used to play spook for us. She was glad enough once to be polite--butter wouldn't melt in her mouth them days!"

"Oh, you mustn't mind Fancy; she's all right when you get used to her."

"She's pretty, if she is sassy," the medium acknowledged. "I can hardly blame you, Frank. I s'pose you find a good use for her. She seems to be pretty fond of you."

Granthope scowled. "Never mind about her. She's a great help to me here, and I like her--that's enough for you. You didn't come here to talk about Fancy Gray."

"I should think your ladies would object, though," the medium pursued. "It looks kind of funny, don't it? She stays here pretty late, it seems to me, if any one was to notice it. Some ladies don't like that sort of thing; they get jealous. Fancy's too pretty by half!"

"That'll be about all about Fancy Gray. Suppose we change the subject."

"Very good then; we'll change it to another girl that's as pretty. How would Miss Payson do to talk about?"

"What about her?"

"A whole lot about her. How are you getting along with her, for the first thing?"

Granthope smiled with an air of satisfaction, but contented himself with remarking, "Oh, I'm getting on all right. I can attend to my own end of the game, thank you. I've handled women before."

"More ways than one, eh?"

"She's not that kind. Don't you believe it!"

"Then what, for the Lord's sake, are you doing with her!" Madam Spoll gave her words a playful accent that he resented. Then she added, more seriously: "Frank, d'you know, I believe you could marry that girl. If you have changed yourself enough to like that kind, you might go farther and fare worse. She'd give you a good stand-in with the Western Addition, too. And we might help you out a bit; who knows! I can see all sorts of things in it, just as it stands."

"I haven't begun to think of anything like that," he replied carelessly.

"Of course not. I know well enough what you was thinking of. But you take my advice and don't spoil a big thing for a little one. Work her easy and you can land her. That's better a good sight than playing with her in your usual way."

He rose and walked to the window and looked out, vaguely annoyed. He turned, in a moment, to ask, "Has the old man made a will?"

"D'you mean to say you ain't found that out yet? Lord, Frank, you _are_ getting slow. I don't know. I ain't come to that yet. But if he ain't, I'll see that he does make one, and that's where I can look out for your interests."

There was a slight sneer on his face. "Oh, don't trouble yourself. I've my own system, you know. I haven't made many breaks yet. It's likely that I can help you more than you can me. That reminds me; you might take these notes. It's about all I have got from the girl so far. They may come in handy."

He went to his desk, took a couple of cards from a tin box in the top drawer, and handed them to Madam Spoll. She looked them over interestedly.

"Much obliged. H'm! So she thinks she's a psychic, does she? They might be something in that. Supposed to be engaged to B. Cayley. Well, you'll have to fix _him_, won't you! Father writing a book--ah! That's just what we want. Say, that's great! Me and Vixley will work that book, don't you worry! Wears a ring with 'Clytie' inside. Turquoises. Mole on left cheek. Goes to Mercantile Library three to five. Sun-dial with doll buried under it. That's funny. I wish it was papers, or something important--I don't see what we could do with a doll, do you? Still, you never can tell. All's generally fish that comes to my net. I've known stranger things than dolls. Making a birthday present of a hand-bound volume of what? Montaigne? What's that? Say, what's this about Madam Grant, anyway?"

He turned to her and held out his hand for the card, now distinctly impatient. "I don't know--that is, I forgot I put that on. There's nothing there that will help you, I guess. You'd better let me have it back, after all. It's chiefly about Miss Payson, anyway, and that isn't your business."

Madam Spoll refused to return the card. Instead, she tucked it into the front of her dress, saying, "Oh, I don't know. You never know what may be useful. It's well to be prepared."

"See here; you understand that you're to keep your hands off Miss Payson," said Granthope with emphasis. "She's my game. Do what you like with the old man, but leave me alone, that's all!"

"Don't you fret yourself about that. Ain't we worked together before, for gracious sakes? I guess I can mind my own business!"

The palmist walked over to the fireplace, stood leaning against the mantel and kicked the fender meditatively, somewhat disturbed by Madam Spoll's presence. He had seen Miss Payson only twice, yet he had already come to the point where he was annoyed to hear her so cold-bloodedly discussed, and his own heartless notes quoted. Even less could he enjoy thinking of so fine and delicate a creature in the toils of Vixley and Spoll. No, she was for his own plucking. She was a quarry well worth his chase. To share his plans with such vulgar plotters seemed to cheapen the prize, to rub off the bloom of her beauty and charm. He would play a more exquisite, a more subtle game. It would not do, however, to break with the mediums. They were still useful to him, in spite of his assertion of independence. They knew, besides, altogether too much about him for him to dare to kindle their resentment.

If Madam Spoll had noticed his detachment she did not show it. She herself had, evidently, been thinking something over, and now she interrupted his meditation.

"Say, Frank, about that old Madam Grant, now--"

"She wasn't so old, was she?"

"How d'you know she wasn't?"

He covered his mistake as well as he could with: "Oh, I've heard she was a young woman, not more than thirty, when she died."

"Well, it's so far back, it seems as though she must have been old. You know I fished a little with what you give me about her and Payson; putting that together with what Lulu Ellis got, I believe I can work him. Funny you happened on that bit. Did the Payson girl tell you?"

"Oh, I got it--she let it out in a way. You know."

Madam Spoll chuckled. "Lord, they tell us more'n we ever tell _them_, don't they! But I was saying: I wish I could find out more about that little boy Madam Grant used to keep. I wonder was he her son, now?"

"I suppose you might find out something if you looked up the files of the _Chronicle_."

"That's a good idea. I'll do it. D'you know what year it was?"

"1877."

"How d'you know?"

He walked away from her carelessly, replying: "That's the idea I got of it. About that time."

"Frank," she said, "ain't you ever got any clue to who you are, yet? Never got any hint at all?"

"Never."

"Why don't you go to some real sure-enough psychic? They might help. I've known 'em to do wonderful things."

Granthope gazed at her and laughed loud. "_You?_" was all he could say.

She drew herself up. "Yes, _me_! Sure. Why, you don't think I consider they ain't no genuine ones, even if I do fake a little, do you?"

"You actually believe there's a medium alive that can tell such things?"

"I'm positive of it. Why, when I begun, I give some remarkable tests myself. I used to get names, sometimes. But there _are_ straight ones. Not here, maybe, but in New York. You could send a lock of your hair."

He went up to her and clapped his hand on her shoulder, still laughing. "You're beautiful, my dear; you're positively beautiful!"

She turned a surprised face to him. "What in the world d'you mean?"

He shook his head and walked away. "Preserve your illusions! It's too wonderful. I'll be believing in palmistry, next I'll believe myself in love, after that. And then--I'll believe I'm honest, dignified, honorable, modest!" His tone grew, word by word, more hard and cynical. Then he turned to her with a whimsical expression: "So you believe your doll's alive!"

"I've no time to talk nonsense any longer!" she exclaimed, rising ponderously. "I can't make you out at all, Frank. Sometimes you're practical as insurance and sometimes you're half bug-house. Maybe it's them clothes!" She regarded him carefully.

He bowed to her with mock courtesy, spreading his fan.

"Lord, you _do_ look like a fool in that Chink's rig. Have a good time with 'em--but keep your eyes and your ears open!"

She went out.

He was about to turn out the electric lights and leave, when he heard a knock at the door. He opened it, and saw the little freckled-face girl who had come to his office the day he had first met Clytie Payson. He recognized her instantly, but she, seeing him so extraordinarily disguised, drew back in surprise.

"Did you want Mr. Granthope?" he asked.

"Yes!" She finally made him out, but still gazed at him, somewhat frightened. Her face was bloodless.

"Come in," he said kindly. "I'm Granthope. You'll have to excuse this costume." He set a chair for her, but she stood, timidly regarding him.

"I'm awfully afraid I'm bothering you, Mr. Granthope, coming so late--I know I ought to have come in your office hours, but I couldn't possibly get off--and I did want to see you awfully! D'you suppose you could help me a little, now? I thought you might be able to, you said such wonderful things when I was here before, and I just can't stand it not to know, and I don't know what to do."

"Do sit down. Tell me what's the matter, my dear."

She crept into a chair, and sat with nervous hands, staring at him.

"Why, don't you remember?" She gazed at him in alarm. "Oh, I've depended so on what you said--it's all that kept me going!"

"Just pardon me a moment, please." He went to his desk drawer and began to fumble over his card catalogue. "I have a memorandum to make. Then I'll talk to you." He came to the card, and made a penciled note and glanced it over. Then he returned to her and sat down. "Now tell me all about it," he said gravely. "I remember perfectly, of course. Bill was in the Philippines, wasn't he? You hadn't heard from him for some time, and you were expecting him home on the next transport?"

She sat, limply huddled in her chair, gazing at him through her sad eyes.

"He did come back. I couldn't meet the boat. I missed him. And now he's gone!"

"He didn't let you know where he went?"

"Oh, Mr. Granthope, it's too awful! I can't bear it, but I could stand anything if I could only find him! You _must_ find him for me."

"I'll do what I can, my dear. Your hand shows that it will all come out for the best. I wouldn't worry."

"Oh, but you don't know! You don't know how bad it is!" she moaned. "I thought you might know. He was wounded in a battle."

"But he came back?"

"Yes." Then she burst into a hurried torrent of words. "He didn't want me to know. He was shot in the face--his nose was shot off--it's awful--some of the men told me about it. Bill was ashamed to have me see him--he tried to make me think he wasn't in love with me any more, so I'd go away. But I knew better. Bill's so proud, Mr. Granthope, you don't know how proud he is! He'd rather leave me than make me suffer. But what do I care for his nose being gone? Why, Bill's a hero! He had more nerve than Hobson, anyway! Just because he was the only man in his company that dared to go through a swamp, under fire, to save his lieutenant--and he brought him in on his back, Bill did! Why, Bill's father was killed at Antietam, but Bill's luck was a heap worse than that! He has to live without a face and be despised and sneered at because he did his duty! Oh, if I can only find him, I'll give him something that will make him forget. Don't I love him all the more for it? He's tried to sacrifice his whole life and happiness only for me--just to save me from suffering when I look at him. D'you know many men who'd do that for a girl? I don't!"

She broke down and sobbed convulsively. The story seemed to Granthope like a scene from a play, and his inability to comfort her smote him while she fought to restrain her tears.

"And you can't find out where he is?"

"No. The company was mustered out, and Bill just naturally disappeared. Nobody knows where he is. I've asked all his officers, and all the men I could find."

He took her hand and looked at it soberly for a moment.

"It will all come out right, my dear. You trust me. There's your line of fate as clean as a string. I see trouble in it, but only for a little while. You'll be married, too. You must have patience and wait, that's all. Suppose you come back and see me in a week or so, and tell me if you've heard any news of him. Meanwhile, I'll see what I can find out myself. There's a cross in your hand--that's a good sign. Bill still loves you, and he won't let you suffer long."

He felt the pitiful emptiness of his words, but he had been too affected by her narrative to give her the smooth banalities that were always ready to his tongue. She got up and looked at him through her tears.

"You have helped me, Mr. Granthope. Somehow I knew you could. I'll be in again sometime. How much is it, please?"

"My dear girl, when you come again, you can thank the young lady whom you saw here before. Don't thank me."

She looked at him silently, then she took his hand and shook it very hard. "You mean that lady with red hair who sits at the desk?"

"Yes."

"I liked her when I saw her. She was nice to me. Is--is she Mrs. Granthope?"

Granthope shook his head and smiled.

The girl blushed at her indiscretion. "I kind of thought--she seemed to be, well, fond of you. I mean, the way she looked at you, I didn't know but what you were married. I hope you'll excuse me." She was visibly confused, and evidently had said much more than she had intended.

"My dear," Granthope replied, "she's far too good for me!"

The girl shook her head slowly, as she rose to go. A smile struggled to her face as if, for the first time, she noted the incongruity of the palmist's costume, then, with a grateful look she went out.

As soon as he had left, Granthope sat down at the desk and wrote a note upon a memorandum pad. It read:

Fancy--

To-morrow morning please go down to the ticket office at the Ferry, and see if you can find out where a soldier, with his nose shot off, bought a ticket to, about ten days ago.

He rose, yawned, stared thoughtfully at the cast; for a few moments, then snapped his fingers and walked to the window. His cab was waiting. He went down-stairs, got into the vehicle and drove off.

The Maxwells lived at Presidio Heights, in one of the newer residences of the aristocratic Western Addition, a handsome brick house decorated with Romanesque fantasies in terra cotta, behind a bronze rail guarded by heraldic griffins. Granthope walked up under the lantern-hung awning five minutes before the hour and was shown to a room up-stairs.

Here there were several men waiting and adjusting their garments. All but one were in Chinese costume; this was a fat, red-faced man, with a white mustache. He was in evening dress, and kept exclaiming:

"I won't make a damned fool of myself for anybody. It's all nonsense!" He was obviously embarrassed at being the only nonconformist.

"Sully" Maxwell, arrayed in a magnificently embroidered Chinese officer's summer uniform--a long, flounced robe, with the imperial dragons and their balls of fire, the rainbow border and the all-over cloud-pattern--was helping the men to dress, chaffing each of them in turn. He was middle-aged and prosperous-looking, typically a "man's man" and "hail-fellow-well-met," despite his immense fortune. He greeted Granthope cordially, without hint of patronage, and introduced him to the others.

Of two, Keith and Fernigan, Granthope had heard much. They were the pets of a certain smartish social circle, in virtue of their cleverness and wit. They were of the kind who habitually do "stunts" and were always expected to make the company merry and informal. Keith was a tall, wiry, flap-eared, smiling fellow, made up as a Chinese stage-comedian, with his nose painted white. Fernigan, short, stout to rotundity, almost bald, with spectacles, and a round, Irish face, was dressed in woman's costume, head-dress, earrings, green coat and pink silk trousers. He was naturally droll, a wag at all times, and his whimsical way constantly approached a shocking limit but never quite reached it. He was speaking a good parody of the Cantonese dialect to his partner, and making eccentric gestures.

Both he and Keith greeted Granthope with mock gravity, addressing him in pidgin English. Granthope answered with what spirit he had, and, taking his place at the mirror, placed upon his nose an enormous pair of blue-glass spectacles, horn-rimmed. They disguised him effectually.

As he left the room, a man with a pointed, reddish beard entered, dressed in long flowing robes of plum-colored silk.

Granthope caught the greeting: "Hello, Blan!" and turned with curiosity to see the Mr. Cayley of whom he had heard so much. He did not, however, wait to be introduced, but passed on.

The great reception-room down-stairs presented one of the most beautiful, as well as one of the most original, of San Francisco interiors. It was entirely of redwood, panels six feet in width all round the walls extending up to a narrow shelf supported by carved brackets. The low-studded ceiling was broken by a row of finely adzed beams, carved tastefully at the ends. A feature of the reception-room was a wide fireplace of terra cotta surmounted by a mantel, consisting of at least a dozen combined moldings, each member of which showed a striking individuality of detail. The place was illuminated by side brackets in the form of copper sconces. Granthope entered, quite at his ease, with a long, swinging, heel-and-toe stride that comported well with his costume.

There were already some half-dozen persons sitting about the room, most of whom seemed afraid to talk for fear of disclosing their identity, or perhaps, a little too self-conscious in their garish raiment. The silence, if it had not been painful, would have been absurd. Granthope looked in vain for any sign of his hostess' presence, and then suspecting that she, too, was masked to enjoy the piquancy of the situation, he saluted one of the ladies, sat down beside her and began a conversation. Knowing that few were acquainted with him he had no need to disguise his voice. He sat on a straight chair stiffly, as he had seen Chinese actors pose at the theater, his toes turned out in opposite directions so as to insure the proper fall of the skirt of his robe, and disclose, through a narrow gap, the splendor of his lavender trousers. His partner answered him in whispers.

As he sat talking nonsense gaily, a woman came into the room with so perfect an imitation of the "tottering lily" walk affected by high-caste Chinese women, that he turned his eyes upon her in delight at her

## acting.

She was of a good height; and her white embroidered shoes, whose heels were placed in the center of the sole, gave her nearly two inches more. Her costume was a rainbow of subdued contrasting colors. It was evident at a glance that every garment she wore was old, valuable and consistent with her character of bride.

The smoothly coiled rolls of her black wig were decorated by numerous gold ornaments and artificial flowers. Across her forehead was a head-dress of gold filigree-work and kingfisher feathers; its ribbon was tied in the back of her head and fell in fanciful ends. She wore two coats--the outer was of yellow brocaded silk, a pastel shade, trimmed with a wide stripe of close blue embroidery and rows of looking-glass buttons--the inner one, shorter, was of blue and black appliqued work in bold, virile pattern. Below this showed her closely-pleated skirt of old rose with a panel of gold embroidery in the center; this, as she walked, revealed occasional glimpses of a pair of full straight green trousers trimmed with horizontal stripes, and a flash of white silk stockings. Necklaces she had in profusion, one of jade, one of purple mother-of-pearl, one of white coral, one of sandalwood; and others in graded sizes and colors. In her right hand she carried a narrow gold-paper fan; on her left wrist was a jade bracelet, and, pulled through it, a green silk handkerchief with a purple fringe.

Her entry made a sensation, as she courtesied gravely to each one in turn. So, playing her part cleverly, she came to Granthope, who arose and greeted her with a dignified salaam. So far they were the only ones who had at all entered into the spirit of the occasion, and he did his best to meet her character and play up to her elaborate salutation. He offered his arm, then, and escorted her, with considerable manner, to a long settee.

In all this pantomime she had preserved a serious expression, the repressed, almost inanely impassive, set face of a Chinese lady of rank; but when at last she was seated, she turned full upon him and smiled under her mask.

The effect upon Granthope was a sudden thrill of overpowering delight. He was deliciously weakened by the revelation. His breath came suddenly, with a swift intake--the blood rioted through his veins.

She wore a much wider mask than the others, so that nothing but her mouth and chin was shown. But that mouth was so tempting, with its ravishing, floating smile, and that smile so concentrated in its limitation to a single feature, that it turned his head. The lips were narrow and bright; the blood seemed about to ooze through the skin. The upper one was curved in a tantalizing bow between the drops of soft shadow at the corners. The cleft above seemed to draw her lip a little upward to disclose a line of small, perfect, regular teeth of a delicate, bluish white translucence, which, parting, showed a narrow rosy tongue. The lower lip was that delicious fraction of an inch lesser than the upper one which, in profile, gave her a touch of youthful, almost boyish, wistfulness. Her round, firm chin showed, from the same point of view, a classic right angle to her throat, where the line swept down the proud column of her neck, there to swing tenderly outward toward her breast.

He could not take his eyes from her, but he had not the will to restrain his staring. The spell was irresistible; he drank her deep and could not get enough. For these whirling moments he was at the mercy of the attraction of sex, impersonal, yet distilled to an intoxicating essence. Had it not been for her mask hiding the upper part of her face, had her eyes corrected this almost wanton loveliness with some reserve or with the effect of a more intellectual character, had his glance even been given a chance to wander over equally enchanting components of that expression, he undoubtedly would not have been so moved by the sight of her laughing, tempting mouth. But that, faultlessly formed, exquisitely sexed, whimsically provocative, had for him, with the rest of her face hidden, an original and freshly flavored delight. In the spectrum of her beauty the violets and blues of her spirit, the greens and orange of her mind were for the nonce inhibited; only the vibrant red rays of her physical personality smote him, burning him with their radiance. But there was, he felt, no malice behind that smile, though it was mischievous; there was nothing wanton there, though in this guise her lips seemed abandoned and inviting. There was, in their flexed contour, in the engaging mobility of their poise, no consciousness of anything sensually appealing. It was, rather, as if he gained some secret aspect of the woman beneath and behind all conventions of morality, of modesty, and of discretion. So far, indeed, she seemed, in a way, without a personality. She was Woman smiling at him. The vision was too much for him.

She bent toward him and her lips whispered:

"How do you do, Mr. Granthope? Why are you staring so? I thought of course you knew me--but I really believe you don't."

Even then he did not recognize her, and was profoundly embarrassed. That he should fail to remember such a mouth as that! He took her hand which had been concealed in her long sleeve and looked at it. She had glued long false nails of celluloid to her little fingers, completing the picture of a Chinese lady of quality. At the first sight of her palm, at the first touch of it, even, he knew her, and, with a rush, a dozen thoughts bewildered him. This was she whom he had been able so to influence, to cajole. He had, in a way, a claim to this comeliness. She had favored him, had confessed her interest in him. They were, besides, bound by a secret tie. He might hope for more of her, perhaps. She was already somewhat in his power; he had, at least, the capacity to sway her. She, alluring, delightful, might perhaps be gained, and in some way, won. She had known him at a glance--there was her prescience again! She had welcomed him, in assurance of her favor. What then was possible? What dared he not hope for? A great wave of desire overcame him.

Meanwhile he answered, distracted and unready:

"You knew me then? I thought I was pretty well disguised."

"Oh, you've forgotten how hard it is to deceive me. I should never try it, if I were you. Of course I knew you! I should know you if you had covered your head in a sack."

He stammered, and he was not often confused enough to stammer. "I don't know how to tell you how beautiful you are, Miss Payson."

She spoke low and slowly, with a wayward inflection, "Oh, I'm so sorry." Then she added, "I scarcely dared speak to you, you are so magnificent."

"I would need to be, to be worthy of sitting beside you," he replied, his wits floating, unmanageable.

"Did you get my note?"

"Yes, I want to thank you for it."

"I hope you've forgiven me."

"Of course, I was only flattered by your frankness."

"It's so easy to be frank with you," she said. "You see, I'm perfectly myself with you, even _en masque_. I doubt if any of my friends would know me as I am with you."

"But I've seen a new 'you' that I haven't known before."

"Then she owes her existence to your presence. But how am I different? Tell me."

"You take my breath away. You say such charming things to me that it deprives me of the power of answering you--anything I could say seems ineffective and cheap. You get ahead of me so. Really, you'll have to be positively rude to me before I can summon presence of mind enough to say anything gallant."

Again her lips curved daintily. Her voice was dulcet:

"Then I am afraid I shall never hear any nice things from you."

He was reduced; baffled by her suavity. He sought in vain for a fitting return. He had the impulse to take advantage of her courtesy, however, and gratify some portion of his desire to be nearer her. She wore, suspended from the gold top-button of her "qua," a red silk tassel with a filigree network of silver threads, containing a gold heart-shaped scent bottle. He reached to it and tried to remove it from its place, covering this slight advance jocosely, with the remark:

"Is that your heart you have there? It seems to be pure gold."

She did not resent what might possibly have been considered a familiarity, but smiled when she saw that he could not remove the bottle from the meshes.

"I'm afraid you won't be able to get at it, that way." There was a touch of playful emphasis in her voice.

Their hands met as she assisted him, showing him how to pull up the sliding ring and open the net. At that contact he became a little giddy. The blood surged to her cheeks. She took out the bottle and handed it to him. That moment was tense with feeling. Then she said, as he tried in vain to unstopper the little jar:

"Can you open it, do you think?"

He attempted futilely to open the little heart. "I'm afraid I can't," he said disconsolately. "Won't you help me?"

"No, you must do it yourself. There is a way--see!"

She took it from him and, concealing it in her hand, opened the top and reached it out for him to smell. He whiffed a penetrating perfume, disturbingly pungent, then she withdrew it from him and closed the heart.

"May I take it?" he asked.

She returned it now, saying, and her smile was more serious than before, "Learn to open it. There is a way."

Granthope took the heart and tried to master its secret. The room had by this time filled up so that a further tete-a-tete was impossible. Miss Payson was now besieged by maskers and held court where she sat. Fernigan, the stout young man with the powdered face, dressed as a woman, was particularly offensive to Granthope, and especially so because it could not be denied that his antics and sallies were witty.

Granthope arose therefore, and walked about the room looking for some one whom he might recognize. There was little likelihood of his succeeding had not his professional capacity given him a clue to follow. He passed from one group to another, bowing, gesticulating and joking, as all had now begun to do, keeping his eyes alertly on the hands of different members of the assembly. It was not long before he suspected Mrs. Page, and, after reassuring himself by closer inspection, he went up to her.

She was as expensively dressed as Clytie, but without Clytie's taste. Mrs. Page's magnificence was barbaric, untamed to any harmony of color, though effective in its very violence. She had not left her diamonds at home. She blazed in them. Tall, dark, well-formed and deep-breasted, not even the loosely hanging folds of a Chinese costume could hide the luxuriance with which Nature had endowed her figure. She was laughing with abandon, reveling in the freedom of the moment, when Granthope touched her on the shoulder and whispered:

"Violet!"

She turned to him and stared, puzzled by his well-disguised face.

"Who are you?"

"I know more about you than any one here!"

"Good heavens!" she laughed, "what do you know about me?"

"Shall I tell you?"

"Not here, for mercy's sake! Don't give me away in respectable society, please. Come out in the hall where we won't be eavesdropped."

She took his arm energetically and romped him out to the staircase. The masks and costumes had let loose all her folly. She effervesced in giggles.

"Let's go up-stairs in the library," she proposed. "We have the run of the house to-night, and nobody'll be there. I want to see if I can't guess who you are. I haven't the least idea who you are, but I believe you're going to be nice."

She tapped him on the cheek playfully with her fan, then picked up her skirts and ran up-stairs, giving him a glance of red silk hose, as she went. He was still quivering with the excitement of Clytie's smile, still warm from her nearness, still full of her, though he would not share her wholesale glances to her throng of admirers. He was still rapt with the exhilaration her smile had kindled, he still held her little perfumed heart. As he followed Mrs. Page up-stairs he smelt again of the gold bottle. The fragrant odor fired him anew. He grew perfervid.

Mrs. Page, unmasked, was awaiting him in the library.

When they came down ten minutes later, he made way to where Clytie sat, talking to the gentleman with the reddish pointed beard and plum-colored garments. Seeing Granthope approach, she turned to her companion, saying:

"Would you mind getting me a glass of water, Blanchard? This mask is fearfully warm. I hope we won't have to keep them on much longer."

Cayley left to obey her and Granthope took his place by her chair. She looked up at him quickly, and said, in a low voice:

"I think you had better give me back my scent-bottle, please."

A pang smote him. He felt the shock of reproach in her voice, knowing what she meant immediately, though he rallied to say, faint-heartedly:

"Why, I haven't learned how to open it yet."

"I'm afraid you'll never learn." She did not look at him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, summoning all his courage. "I thought you had given it to me."

She kept her eyes away from him. "If I did, I must ask it back, now."

Perturbed as he was by this new proof of her intuition, he refused to admit it. After all, it might have been merely her quick observation. At any rate, he would make another attempt to pit his cleverness against her sapience.

"Oh, we only went up to see Mr. Maxwell's books. He has a first edition of Montaigne there." He was for a moment sure that she was only jealous.

She bent her calm eyes upon him. There was no weakness in her mouth, though it seemed more lovely in its tremulous distress. The upper lip quivered uncontrolled; the lower one fell grieving, as she said:

"I asked nothing. I want only honesty in what you do tell me."

This time he was fairly amazed. The hit was deadly. He dared not suspect that she had taken a chance shot. He was too humbled to attempt any denial, knowing how useless it would be in the face of her discernment. Yet she had showed nothing more than disapproval or distress. Her reproof could scarcely be called an accusation, and her chivalry touched him.

"I don't know what you will think of me," he said.

"Oh, I've heard so much worse of you than that," she said, "and it hasn't prevented my wanting to be friends with you. I hope only that you will never misinterpret that friendliness. You don't think me bold, do you?"

"I wish you were bolder."

"Oh, you don't know my capacity yet. But, really, do you understand? It's that feeling, you know, that in some way we're connected, that's all. It's unexplainable, and I know it's silly of me. I'm not trying to impress you."

"But you are!"

In answer, she smiled again, and again that flood of delight came over him rendering him unable, for a moment, to do anything but gaze at her. Luckily just then Cayley returned with a glass of water; at the same time, the order was given by Mrs. Maxwell to unmask.

Clytie drew off her visor immediately. As Granthope watched her he felt the quality of his excitement change, transmuted to a higher psychic level. Somehow, with her whole face revealed, with her serene eyes shining on him, he was less in the grip of that craving which had held him prisoner. It fled, leaving him more calm, but with a deepened, more vital desire. The completed beauty of her face now thrilled him with a demand for possession, but the single note of passion was richened to a fuller chord of feeling. The mole on her cheek made her human, and almost attainable.

That feeling gave him a new and potent stimulus, as, under his hostess' direction, he offered Clytie his arm into the supper-room, and took a place beside her. It buoyed him with pride when he looked about at the gaily clad guests and noticed, with a quickened eye, the distinction of her face and air, comparing her with the others. That dreamy, detached aspect in which he had seen her before had given way now to a fine glow of excitement which stirred her blood. How far she responded to his enthusiasm he could not tell; she was, at least, inspired with the novelty of the scene--the gaudy dresses, the warm red lights of monstrous paper lanterns, the odors of burning joss-sticks, the table, flower-bedecked and set out with strangely decorated dishes, and the monotonous, hypnotic squeak and clang and rattle of a Chinese orchestra half-way up the stairs.

All trace of her annoyance had gone from her now, and that unnamable, untamed spirit, usually dormant in her, had retaken possession of her body. She was more jubilantly alive than he had thought it possible for her to be. He dared not attribute her animation to his presence, however, gladly as he would have welcomed that compliment. It was the spell of masquerade, no doubt, that had liberated an unusual mood, emboldening her to show those nimble flashes of gallantry. At any rate, that revelation of her under-soul was a piquant subject for his mind to think on; there was an evidence of temperament there which tinctured her fragile beauty with an intoxicating suggestion. It was a sign of unexpected depths in her, a promise of entrancing surprises.

For the first time in his life he lacked the audacity to woo a woman boldly. There had never been enough at stake before to make him count his chances. There had been everything to win, nothing to lose. Women had solicited his favor, but there was something different in Clytie's approaches toward familiarity. She spoke as with a right-royal and secure from suspicion, with a directness which of itself made it impossible for him to take advantage of her complaisance. He was put, in spite of himself, upon his honor to prove himself worthy of her confidence. There was, besides, a social handicap for him in her assured position--he could see what a place she held by the treatment she received from every one--while he was in his novitiate at such a gathering, newly called there, his standing still questionable. But, most of all, to make their powers unequal, was his increasing fear of her as an antagonist with whom he could not cope intellectually. He, with all his clever trickery and his practical knowledge of psychology, was like a savage with bow and arrow; she, with her marvelous intuition, like a goddess with a bolt mysteriously and dangerously effective.

Already his instinct accepted this relation, but his brain was still stubborn, seeking a refuge from the truth. He was to have, even as he sat there with her, another manifestation.

Clytie sat at his left hand. Mrs. Page, at his right, had been assigned to the bald, red-faced gentleman with white mustache, who had so profanely refused to make a fool of himself by wearing a Chinese costume. His sprightly, flamboyant partner was ill-pleased with her lot. She proceeded to spread an airy conversational net for Granthope, endeavoring to trap him into her dialogue, with such patent art that every woman at the table noticed her tactics.

Granthope, however, shook her off with a smile and a joke, as if she were an annoying, buzzing fly. Still she hummed about him, leaving her partner to himself and his food. However clever and willing Granthope might have been, ordinarily, at such an exchange of persiflage, it was all he could do to parry her thrusts and at the same time keep up with Clytie. But she, noticing Mrs. Page's game, was mischievous enough, or, perhaps, annoyed enough, to give the woman her chance and submit to a trial of strength. So, as if to give Granthope the choice between them, she turned to her left-hand neighbor, Fernigan, who, in his female costume, had kept that end of the table, by his wit, from interfering with her colloquy.

Granthope was in a quandary, fearing to be inextricably annexed. Mrs. Page at this moment increased his dilemma by casting a languishing look at him and pressing his foot with hers under the table.

All that was flirtatiously adventurous in him boiled up; for Mrs. Page was, in her own way, a beauty, and, as he had reason to know, amiable.

He drew away his foot, however, and as he did so, gave a quick inward glance at himself, wondering, and not a little amused, at the change that had taken place in him. Novelty is, in such dalliance, a prime factor of temptation--it was not a lack of novelty, however, which made her touch unwelcome, for he was, in his relations with the woman, at what would be usually a parlous stage. He had already been gently reproved for his weakness--but it was not the smart of that disapproval that withheld him. He had begun to fear Clytie's vision--yet he was not quite ready to admit her infallible. His self-denial, then, was indicative of an emotional growth. He smiled to himself, a little proud of the accompaniment of its tiny sacrifice.

Clytie, turning to him, rewarded him with a smile, and, leaning a little, said under her breath:

"I'm so glad that you find me more worth your while."

He could but stare at her. Mrs. Page was quick enough to see, if not hear, what had happened; she turned vivaciously to the gentleman in evening dress.

Granthope exclaimed, "You knew that?"

"Ah, it is only with you that I can do it." She seemed to be more confused at the incident than he. "I know so much more than I ever dare speak of," she added.

This did not weaken her spell.

She continued: "Do you remember what you said, when you read my palm, about my being willing to make an exaggerated confession of motives, rather than seem to be hypocritical, or unable to see my own faults?"

He did not remember, but he dared not say so. He waited a fraction of a second too long before he said:

"Certainly I remember."

She looked hard at him and mentally he cowered under her clear gaze. Then her brows drew slightly together with a puzzled expression, as if she wondered why he should take the trouble to lie about so small a matter. But this passed, and she did not arraign his sincerity.

"Well, what I want you to know now is that I don't consider myself any better--than she is. Do you know what I mean? I don't condemn her. Oh, dear, I'm so inarticulate! I hope you understand!"

"I think I do," he answered, but he could not help speculating as to the definiteness of her perception. She answered his question unasked.

"I get things only vaguely--that's one reason why I could not judge a person upon the evidence of my intuition--I couldn't tell you, for instance, exactly what happened between you two just now. I know only that I was disturbed, and that you, somehow, reassured me."

"But you were more precise about what happened up-stairs." He was still at a loss to fix her limitations.

"Oh, there I pieced it out a little. Shall I confess? I knew you well enough to fill in the picture. I know something of her, too."

"Witch!"

"You're a wizard to make me confess!" she replied, brightly shining on him. "I don't often speak. It's usually very disagreeable to know so much of people--indeed, I often combat it and refuse to see. But with you it's different."

"It's not disagreeable?"

"No, it is disagreeable usually. It makes me feel priggish to mention it, too, but, with you, the impulse to speak is as strong as the revelation itself; that's the strangest part of it."

This confession gave him a new sense of power, for he saw that, sensitive as was her intuition, he controlled and appropriated it. It had already occurred to him what splendid use he might make of her, compelling such assistance as she could render. Vistas of ambition had opened to his fancy. For him, as a mere adventurer, her clairvoyance might reinforce his scheming most successfully. With her he could play his game as with a new queen on the chess-board. But he saw now how absurd was the possibility of harnessing her to such projects. He was, in fact, a little dazzled by the prospect she suggested. As he corrected that mistake with a blush for his worldly innocence, he saw what the game with her alone could be--his game transferred from the plane of chicanery to the level of an intimate friendship--or even love. He saw how she would play it, how she would hold his interest, keeping him intellectually alive with the subtlety of her character.

So far he had not taken her seriously; he had reveled in the possibility of a love affair, but he had not even contemplated the possibility of a permanent alliance. As Madam Spoll had said, he had had his pick of women--and each had ended by boring him. Granthope, besides, with all his delight in strategy, was modest, and desire for social establishment had not entered into his plans. He had accepted Clytie as one of a different world, desirable and even tempting, but not at all as one who would change either his theory or his mode of life. But now, with a sudden turn, his thoughts turned to marriage with her. Madam Spoll's words leaped to his memory--she had said that it was possible. This idea came as the final explosion of a long, tumescent agitation. He looked at Clytie with new eyes. His ambition soared.

The meal went on in a succession of bizarre courses--seaweed soup, shark's fins, duck's eggs, fried goose and roasted sucking pig, boiled bamboo sprouts to bird's nests and mysterious dishes--with rice gin and citron wine. The company was rollicking now; even the gentleman in black evening dress was laughing, and, goaded on by the irrepressible Mrs. Page, had taken a large crown of gold paper, cut into rich patterns and decorated with colored trimmings, from its place in the center of the table and had set it upon his bald head. The walls of the dining-room were covered with a row of paper costumes, elaborate robes used by the Chinese tongs in their triennial festival of the dead. They were of all colors, decorated with cut paper or painted in dragon designs with rainbow borders and gold mons. Mrs. Page tore one from the wainscot and wrapped it about her partner's shoulders. Fernigan gibbered a fantastic allegiance before him; Keith, he of the white nose, called for a speech. Over all this mirth the clashing cymbals, the rattling tom-toms and squeaking two-stringed fiddles kept up an uncouth accompaniment. Granthope, so far, had been a quiet observer, but when at Clytie's request he removed his wig and false mustache, he was recognized by Frankie Dean, who sat further up the table.

"Oh, Mr. Granthope," she cried out. "Won't you please read my hand?"

Every one turned to him. Clytie watched him to see what he would do. Mrs. Maxwell, at the head of the table, obviously annoyed at this indelicacy, sought to rescue him.

"I promised Mr. Granthope that he wouldn't be asked," she interposed, smiling with difficulty.

"Office hours from ten till four," Fernigan announced. The guests tittered.

Granthope arose calmly and walked up to the young lady's side, taking her hand. Then he turned to his sarcastic tormentor.

"This is one of the rewards of my profession," he said, smiling graciously. "I assure you I don't often get a chance to hold such a beautiful hand as this."

Clytie got a glance across to him, and in it he read her approval. He bent to the girl's palm gravely:

"I see by your clothes-line," he said, "that you have much taste and dress well. Your fish-line shows that you have extraordinary luck in catching anything you want. There are many victories along your line of march. There is a pronounced line of beauty here; in fact, all your lines are cast in pleasant places. You will have a very good hand at whatever game you play, and whoever is fortunate enough to marry you will surely take the palm."

He retired gracefully, followed by laughter and applause, and was not troubled by more requests. Clytie whispered to him:

"I think you saved yourself with honor. It was a test, but I was sure of you!"

Mrs. Maxwell, immensely relieved, almost immediately gave the signal for the ladies to leave. After the men had reseated themselves, heavy Chinese pipes with small bowls were passed about. Most of the guests tried a few puffs of the mild tobacco, and then reached for cigarettes or cigars. As the doors to the drawing-room were shut they drew closer together and began to talk more freely.

Blanchard Cayley came over and sat down beside Granthope in Clytie's empty chair. He, too, had taken off his wig. His smile was ingratiating, his voice was suave, as he said:

"I don't want to make you talk shop if you don't care to, Granthope, but I'd like to know if you ever heard of reading the character by thumb-prints. I don't know exactly what you'd call it--papilamancy, perhaps."

"I don't think it has ever been done, but I don't see why it shouldn't be," said Granthope, amused.

"What is necessary to make it a science?"

Granthope, quicker with women than with men, was at a loss to see what Cayley was driving at, but he suspected a trap, and foresaw that his science was to be impugned. He countermined:

"Oh, first of all, a classification and a terminology," he suggested. Cayley was caught neatly. He was more ignorant than he knew.

"Why don't you classify the markings then? I should think it might be considered a logical development of chiromancy."

"One reason is, because they have already been classified by Galton. I've forgotten most of it, but I remember some of the primary divisions. Have you a pencil?"

Cayley unbuttoned and threw open his plum-colored, long-sleeved 'dun,' disclosing evening dress underneath, and produced a pencil which he gave to the palmist. Granthope smoothed out his paper napkin, and, as he talked, drew illustrative diagrams upon it.

"You see, the identification of thumb-prints is made by means of the characteristic involution of the nucleus and its envelope. One needs only a few square millimeters of area. There are three primary nuclei--arches, whorls and loops. Each has variously formed cores. The arch, for instance, may be tented or forked--so. The whorls may be circular or spiral. The loops may be nascent, invaded or crested, and may contain either a single or several rods, as they are called. Let me see your thumb, please. You have a banded, duplex, spiral whorl. It was there when you were born, it will be the same in form when you die. Mine is an invaded loop with three rods."

He saw by Cayley's face that he had scored. Such technical detail was, in point of fact, Cayley's penchant, and he was interested. Granthope proceeded:

"Almost every distinguishing characteristic of the human body has been used at one time or another for divination or interpretation, as I suppose you know."

Cayley saw an opening. "But what do you think the reading of moles, for instance, amounts to, really?"

"The reading of them, very little, of course. But the location of them, a good deal."

"Ah," said Cayley, "I thought so. Then you affirm an esoteric basis with regard to such interpretations? You think that a mass of absolute knowledge has been conserved, coming down from no one knows where, I suppose?"

"There are several ways of looking at it," Granthope answered him. He threw himself back in his chair and gathered the company in with his eyes. "One theory, as you know, is that palmistry derives its authority from the fact that the lines are produced by the opening and closing of the hand--originally, at least--the fundamental markings being inherited, as are our fundamental mental characteristics--and that such alteration of the tissue is directly affected by the character. One stamps his own particular way of doing things upon his palm. Using the right hand most, more is shown there that is individually characteristic. Of course this theory will not apply to the distribution of moles upon the body. But it seems to me that every part of an organic growth must be consistent with the whole, and with what governs it. Everything about a person must necessarily be characteristic of the individual. There are really no such things as accidents, if we except scars. We recognize that in studying physiognomy, and, to a certain extent, in phrenology. It is suggested less intelligibly in a person's gait, gesture and pose. Everything that is distinctive must be significant, if only we have the power of interpreting it. Of course we have not that power as yet. Palmistry, being the most obvious and striking method, has been more fully developed. A great amount of data has been collected upon the subject, and every good palmist is continually adding to that material. But I believe that, to a possible higher intelligence, any part of a man's body would reveal his character--since every specialized partial manifestation of himself must be correlated with every other part and the whole. How else could it be? An infinite experience would draw a man's mental and physical portrait, for instance, from a single toe, as it is possible for a scientist to portray a whole extinct animal from a single bone. I think that there can be, in short, no possible divergence from type without a reason for it; and that reason is the same one that molded his character."

"But that doesn't explain prognostication of the future." By this time the animus of Cayley's attack had died out. He was now impersonally interested.

"No scientific palmist attempts to give more than possibilities. He must combine with the signs in the hands a certain amount of psychology--a knowledge of the tendencies of human nature--in order to predict. But, after all, his diagnosis, when it is logical, is as accurate as that of the ordinary physician, and the risk is less serious. How many doctors look wise and take serious chances--or prescribe bread-pills? There's guess-work enough in all professions."

By this time the two had been joined by several others who hung over them in a group, listening. Fernigan interjected:

"That's right! Even Blanchard has to guess what he's talking about most of the time!"

"And you have to guess whether you're sober or not!" said slim Keith with the white nose.

"When you talk about the probable tendencies of human nature, you don't know what you're up against," said Cayley, retreating. "San Francisco is a town where people are likely to do anything. There's no limit, no predicting for them. They were buying air-ship stock on the street down at Lotta's fountain, the last thing I heard."

The old gentleman in evening dress, still wearing his Chinese paper crown, took him up enthusiastically.

"You can be more foolish here without getting into the insane asylum than any place on earth, but you have to be a thoroughbred spiritualist before you can really call yourself bug-house. Look at old man Bennett! You couldn't make anything up he wouldn't believe!"

"What about him?" said Cayley. "I would like to have him for my collection of freaks.

"Oh, he was a furniture manufacturer here. I knew him well, but I forget the details. It was something fierce though, the way they worked him."

Granthope smiled. "I can tell you something about Bennett," he offered. "I happened to hear the whole story nearly at first hand."

"Let's have it," Cayley proposed.

Granthope leaned back in his chair and began, rather pleased at having an audience.

"Why, he went to investigating spiritualism and fell into the hands of a man named Harry Wing and a gang of mediums here. They won Bennett over to a firm belief, step by step, till he was the dupe of every ghost that appeared in the materializing circles, which cost him twenty-five dollars an evening, by the way. One man that helped Wing out, played spirit, pretended to be his dead son, and used to ask him for jewelry so that he could dematerialize it, and then rematerialize it for identification. If Bennett went down to Los Angeles he'd take the same train and turn up at a circle there, proving he was the same spirit by the rings that had been given him up here. Well, Bennett got so strong for it that after a while they didn't bother with cabinets and dark seances--the players used to walk right in the door. Then they'd tell him that, as partly materialized spirits, they ought to have dinner to increase their magnetism, and he'd send out for chicken and wine. Finally they got him so they'd point out people on the street and assert that they were spirits. The prettiest test was when they materialized Cleopatra. I've never seen the Egyptian queen, but she certainly wasn't a bit prettier than the girl who played her part. Bennett, as an extraordinary test of her strength, was allowed to take her out to the Cliff House in a hack. The curtains of the carriage had to be pulled down to keep the daylight from burning her."

"Oh, Cliff House, what crimes have been committed in thy name!" Fernigan murmured.

"Next, they made Bennett believe that his influence was so valuable in accustoming spirits to earth-conditions, that they were going to reveal a new bible to him, with all the errors and omissions corrected, and he would go down to posterity as its author. In return, he was to help civilize the planet Jupiter. You see, Jupiter being an exterior planet was behind the earth in culture. Bennett contributed all sorts of agricultural implements and furniture to be dematerialized and sent to Jupiter, there to be rematerialized and used as patterns. Wing even got him to contribute a five hundred dollar carriage for the same purpose. It was sold by the gang for seventy-five dollars, and even when it was shown to Bennett by his friends, who were trying to save him, he wouldn't believe it was the same one. They milked him out of every cent at last, and he died bankrupt."

Granthope had scarcely finished his story when the drawing-room doors were half opened and Mrs. Page appeared on the threshold pouting.

"Aren't you ever coming in here?" she exclaimed petulantly. "You might let us have Mr. Granthope, at least."

The men rose and sauntered in, one by one.

Granthope had but a moment in which to reflect upon what he had done, but in that moment he regretted his indiscretion in telling the Bennett story. He had not been able to resist the opportunity to make himself interesting and agreeable; now he wondered what price he would have to pay for it. The next moment his speculations vanished at the sight of Clytie.

He went directly to her and sat down. Although the party was dispersed in little groups, the conversation had become more or less general, and he had no chance to talk to her alone. He received her smile, however, and she favored him with as much of her talk as was possible.

As she sat there, with relaxed grace that was almost languor, she made the other women in the room look either negligently lolling or awkwardly conscious. He noticed how some of them showed the fabled western influence of environment by the frank abandon of their pose, how others held themselves rigidly, as if aware of their own lack, and sought, by stern attention, to conceal it. Clytie's head was poised proudly, her hands fell from her slender wrists like drooping flowers. Her whole body was faultlessly composed, unified with harmonious lines, as if a masterly portrait were gently roused into life.

Fernigan now began, upon request, a Chinese parody, accompanied by absurd pantomime. Granthope could not bear it, and, seeing Clytie still busy with her admirers, slipped out of the room and went up to the library.

Mr. Maxwell's books were rare and carefully selected, a treat for such an amateur as Granthope. He went from case to case fingering the volumes, opening and glancing through one after another. The pursuit kept him longer than he had intended.

There was a smaller room off the library, used as a study and shut off by a portiere. Granthope, standing near the entrance, suddenly heard the sound of swishing skirts and footsteps, then the subdued, modulated voices of two women. With no intention at first of eavesdropping, he kept on with his perusal of the book in his hand. The first part of the conversation he remembered rather than listened to, but it soon attracted his alert attention.

"I think it's a rather extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maxwell's asking him, though, don't you?" one of the ladies said.

The reply was in a gentle and more sympathetic voice: "Oh, she wanted an attraction, I suppose, and he's really very good-looking, you know."

"He's handsome enough, but he's too much like a matinee hero for me; my dear, he's absolutely impossible, really! He's not the sort of person one cares to meet more than once. He's beyond the pale.

"It's rather cruel to invite him just to show him off, I think. In a way, he had to accept."

"Oh, I expect he's only too glad to come."

"I wonder how he feels! Do you suppose he has any idea that he's out of his element? It must be strange to be willing to accept an invitation when you know you are, after all, only a sort of freak."

"Don't worry. A charlatan has to have a pretty thick skin--no doubt he'll make use of all of us, and brag about his acquaintance. That's his business, you know; he has to advertise himself."

"I know; but every man has his own sense of dignity, and it must be somewhat mortifying--no self-respecting coal-heaver would accept such an invitation--his pride would keep him from it.

"I don't see how a man like that can have much pride. A coal-heaver has, after all, a dignified way of earning his living. This man hasn't. His trade can't permit him to be self-respecting. It's more undignified than any honest labor would be. Why, he lives by trickery and flattery, and now he's beginning to toady, too. Just look at the way he is after Clytie Payson, already."

"Yes, I can't see why she permits it, but she seems to be positively fascinated by him. Isn't it strange how a fine girl like that is usually the most easily deceived? Did you see the way she was looking at him at supper? That told the story. Of course, you'd expect it of Mrs. Page, but not of Cly."

"Don't you believe it! Cly's no fool--she sees through him. He's interesting, you can't deny that; and you know that a clever man can get about anything he wants in this town. There are too few of them to go round, and so they're all spoiled. But Cly's only playing him."

"You don't think she's deliberately fooling him, do you?"

"Nonsense! I know Cly as well as you do. She would always play fair enough, of course, but that doesn't prevent her wanting to study a new specimen, especially one as attractive as Granthope. But it won't last long. Cly's too honest. It's likely that he'll go too far and take advantage of her--then she'll call him down and dismiss him."

"Do you think he imagines that he could really--" began the other.

"Oh, _he's_ no fool either! He knows perfectly well where he belongs, but he's working his chances while they last."

Granthope had been deliberately listening and, as the last words came to his ears, his emotion burst into flame. This, then, was how he was regarded by the new circle into which he had been admitted. He was a curiosity, handsome, but beyond the pale--even Clytie, it was probable, was willing to amuse herself with him. The illumination it gave him as to his status was vivid, its radiance scorched him.

He had never caught this point of view before. He had been too interested in his emergence from obscurity, he had even congratulated himself upon his increasing success. Now he saw that the further he went on that road the further away from Clytie he would be--he saw the chasm that separated them. His undignified profession appeared to him for the first time in its true aspect. The humiliation and mortification of that revelation was sickening. He had not believed that it was possible for him to suffer over anything so keenly. The insults he had received, produced, after a poignant moment of despair, an energetic reaction. His fighting instinct was awakened. He had achieved a certain control of himself, he had a social poise and assurance that kindled his mind at the prospect of an encounter.

He drew aside the portiere and walked boldly into the little room.

Two ladies were sitting there, picturesque in their costumes. Their rainbow-hued garments showed a bizarre blotch of color in the quiet monochrome of the place. Their faces were whitened with powder, their eyebrows blackened to the willow-curve, their lips lined with red--they looked, in the half-light, like fantastic, exotic Pierrettes. As they caught sight of him they started up with surprise, almost with fear. Granthope bowed with a quiet smile, perfectly master of himself.

"I want to apologize for having overheard your conversation," he said. "I must confess that I was eavesdropping. My business is, you know, to read character for others, and I don't often have a chance to hear my own so well described. I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure."

He had the whip-hand now. There was nothing for them to say; they said nothing, staring at him, their lips parted.

He walked through to the door of the hall and there paused like an actor making his exit from the stage. A cynical smile still floated on his lips. He had never looked more handsome, with his black hair, his clean-cut head, and his fine, deep eyes that looked them over calmly, without haste. His costume became him and he wore it well. Now, as he raised his hand, the long sleeve of his olive green coat fell a little away from his fingers. Below, his lavender trousers gleamed softly. It was a queer draping for his serious pose. It was a strangely figured pair that he addressed as they sat, embarrassed, immovable in their splendid silken garments.

He added more gently, with no trace of sarcasm in his smooth voice: "I would like to tell you, if it is any satisfaction for you to know, that your operation has been successful. It was rather painful, without the anesthetic of kindness, but I shall recover. I think I may even be better for it, perhaps restored to health--who knows!" Then his smile became enigmatic; he left them and went down the stairs.

He made his way to Clytie with a new assurance; inexplicably to him, some innate power, long in reserve, had risen to meet the emergency. He was exhilarated, as with a victory. She looked up at him puzzled.

"I wonder if you know what has happened this time?" he said.

"Oh, if I only did! Something has--you have changed, somehow."

"Is it an improvement?"

"You know, it is my theory that you're going to--" She gave up her explanation--her lips quivered. "Well, yes! You have been embarrassed?"

"I suppose it was good for my vanity."

"Then you have heard something unpleasant."

"The truth often is."

"Was it true?"

He laughed it off. "It was nothing I mightn't have known."

"Then it is for you to make it false, isn't it?"

"If I can."

"I think there is nothing you couldn't do if you tried."

"There is nothing I couldn't do if I had your help," he answered.

For answer, she took the little gold heart-shaped bottle from its mesh-work and handed it to him.

"You must learn--but perhaps this may help you. Will you keep it?"

He took it and thanked her with his eyes. Then, their dialogue being interrupted, he moved off. He wandered about, speaking to one and another for a few moments, gradually drifting toward the hall.

As he stood just outside the reception-room he glanced up the broad stairs carelessly, thinking of the two ladies to whom he had spoken. He smiled to himself, wondering if they had yet come down. While he was watching, he saw a woman at the top of the stairs, looking over the rail. A second glance showed her to be a servant. She descended slowly, and, in a moment, beckoned stealthily. He paid no attention.

She came nearer, and, finally, seeing no one with him, called out to him in a whisper. It was Lucie, Mrs. Maxwell's maid. The moment Granthope recognized her, he walked into the parlors again, as if he had not noticed her.

Soon after that he paid his farewell amenities to his hostess and went up to where he had left his hat and coat. Lucie was in the upper hall waiting for him.

"Mr. Granthope," she whispered, "may I speak to you a moment? I have something."

"Not now," he said, passing on.

She plucked at his sleeve. "I've got a great story," she insisted.

He shook his head.

"Shall I come down to your office?"

"Be quiet!" he said under his breath, and went in for his things.

She was waiting for him when he emerged.

"I'll come down as soon as I can get off," she continued.

He shrugged his shoulders without looking at her, and went down-stairs, and out.

*