exteriors than John Reagan, twenty years a precinct detective and retired to take up the haughtier rôle of plain-clothes man in this most fastidious of metropolitan hostelries.

“No trouble at all, old chap,” laughed the young man. “I lost my little capri, and then by accident I discovered a stray member of the herd belonging to yonder Ajax. Some day he’s going to turn into solid marble from the dome down, when you will have a most extraordinary piece of statuary on your hands. By the way, have there been any telephone messages for me? I am expecting a very important one.”

“I will see, Mr. Smith,” said the clerk briskly, and began searching through the pigeonholes. “Yes, Mr. Whitney Barnes called up––left word he would call up again at 2 sharp. Will you be in your room, sir?”

“Do you think I’ll be safe in my room?” asked the young man solemnly.

“Safe!” exclaimed the clerk. “Why, what do you mean, sir?”

“Oh, nothing, only Sir Ivory Ajax seems suspicious of me and might take it into his head to come up and see if I hadn’t murdered my valet. That’s all. I’m going to my room now to wait for Mr. Barnes’s telephone call. Kindly be sure that he is connected with my room.”

“There is something strange about that young fellow,” murmured the clerk as he watched the object of suspicion vanish into the lift. “Though if he is a friend of Whitney Barnes,” the clerk added after a pause, “he ought to be all right. I think I’ll look him up in the Social Register.”

Which he did––without enlightenment.

Having arrived in the grill room of the Ritz coincident with a devastating eruption of grapefruit, Mrs. Elvira Burton set out forthwith to demonstrate that her unexpected advent was likewise somewhat in the nature of a lemon. Even her smile was acid as she spread out her rich sable furs and sat down at the table with her two pretty nieces.

“I have just received a letter from Mr. Hogg, Helen,” she began with a rush, regardless of the anguish that was still evident in Helen’s lovely grapefruit bespattered eyes.

A twinge of something more than mere physical pain twisted the young girl’s features at the mention of the name––Hogg.

“Oh, auntie,” she almost sobbed, “can’t you leave Mr. Hogg out of my luncheon. We had him last night for dinner and again this morning for breakfast.”

“Helen!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton in accents of bitter reproach.

“I just won’t have him for luncheon, and with all this grapefruit in my eye,” insisted Helen, hotly.

“It must hurt terribly,” sympathized Mrs. Burton’s other pretty charge, then twisted her head and looked behind her.

“What are you looking at, Sadie?” demanded Mrs. Burton, suspiciously.

Sadie turned with a start and blushed furiously. She started to stammer a reply when the less timid cousin came to her rescue.

“Some ridiculous man was trying to flirt with us and we were both awfully nervous. I suppose Sadie looked to see if you had frightened him off.”

The blushing Sadie was amazed at her cousin’s resourcefulness, and stole a glance from under the curling fuzz of her golden bang to note the effect produced upon her august guardian and aunt. Mrs. Burton groped in her mind for some subtlety that might have been contained in her niece’s remark, failed at any plausible solution and then almost vindictively returned to her original line of attack.

“Helen Burton, I must insist that you listen to me. I have broken an engagement for the matinée with my friend, Mrs. Hobbs-Smathers of Chicago, for the express purpose of communicating to you the contents of Mr. Hogg’s letter. He informs me, Helen, that you are treating him scandalously; that you do not pay the slightest attention to his letters or even answer his telegrams.”

“Did he say he was getting thin––that would be charming,” teased the incorrigible Helen.

Mrs. Burton gasped and the color surged into her cheeks in two flaming danger signals. The glance she turned upon the mischievously laughing eyes of her niece was intended to annihilate every vestige of frivolity. Her ample bosom struggled in its purple velvet casement. Sadie Burton actually shook in her tiny boots as she pictured her aunt in one of her hysterical outbursts right there in the midst of a host of strangers who seemed to the unsophisticated miss from Omaha to represent the very cream of New York society.

Even Helen was sobered by the gathering storm warnings. The smile left her curving red lips and the dimples vanished. All that lingered of her playful humor showed in the impish lights that danced in her expressive eyes.

But she was spared the storm. A tiny page, resplendant with myriad buttons, appeared in the entrance to the Oak Room and lisped the name:

“Mith Helen Burthon.”

He bore in his arms a bouquet of magnificent orchids. Every eye in the room focussed upon the tiny flower bearer, among them the wrathful pair of Mrs. Elvira Burton.

“Mith Helen Burthon.”

The rage of the older woman had somewhat cooled. She managed to nod her head haughtily to the boy. He came forward briskly with his precious burden of blooms and laid them on the table, then right-about-faced 18 with military precision and marched away.

Now it was Helen Burton’s turn to blush and her agitation was as pretty to see as anything those who continued to stare in her direction had ever witnessed. Her dimples were positive hollows from which her blushes seemed to fountain. She did not reach for the bouquet, though, because her hand trembled so and there was actual fear in her eyes as she shrank back in her seat and regarded her aunt.

Mrs. Burton was not loath to seize upon any leverage that might give her sway over her rebellious niece. With a smile that was unequivocally malicious she slowly raised the bunch of orchids and turned them over. The bouquet was tied with a delicate mauve satin ribbon that perfectly matched the gown worn by her niece.

Mrs. Burton looked at the ribbon and then at Helen’s dress. There was accusation in the glance. Her eyes studied the orchids. They were of a peculiar rich golden brown, matching the splendor of Miss Burton’s hair. There was conviction in the second glance. She turned the bouquet over several times, looking for a card.

There was none.

Now, here was a mystery! Could Miss Helen explain? Mrs. Burton inhaled a deep breath, then said with exaggerated sweetness:

“Helen, dear, who could have sent you these beautiful 19 flowers? They are positively superb. He must certainly be an artist.”

Great as was her first panic, the young girl quickly rallied to her own defense. She had only waited to be sure there was no card, no incriminating mark of identification. She leaned forward on her elbows, sighed rapturously and exclaimed:

“Aren’t they exquisite, Aunt El!”

“I asked you, Helen dear, who could have sent them?” There was something distinctly feline in the purring tones as the question was repeated.

“Why, isn’t there any card, Aunt El?” fenced the girl.

“Come, come, my dear, why keep me in suspense? You can see there is no card. Can it be one of the young men we met at the Grangers last night? I hardly think so, for it is execrably bad form to send flowers to a public dining room by a page in buttons.”

Helen shook her