“Nothing new,” Gard answered.  “Haven’t had time to bother.  By the way, Mahr, what sort of a girl is the little debutante daughter of Mrs. Marteen—­you know her, don’t you?” He was watching Mahr keenly, and fancied he detected a shifty glance at the mention of the name.  But Mahr answered easily: 

“Dorothy?  She’s the season’s beauty—­really a stunning-looking girl.  You must have seen her; she was in Denning’s box with her mother at ’La Boheme’ last week.”

“And,” added Denning, “she’ll be with us again to-morrow night.”

“Oh,” said Card, with indifference.  “The dark one—­I remember—­tall—­yes, she’s like her mother, devilish handsome.  Must send that child some flowers, I suppose.”

Gard returned home, disgusted with himself.  Why had he forced his mood upon these men?  Why, above all things, had he mentioned Mrs. Marteen to Mahr, whom he despised?  For the simple pleasure of speaking of her, of mentioning her name?  Why had he suspected Mahr of being one of her victims?  And why, in heaven’s name, had he resented the very same notion?  He lay in bed numbering the men of money and importance whom he knew shared Mrs. Marteen’s acquaintance.  They were numerous, both his friends and enemies.  What had they done?  What was her hold over them?  Had she in all cases worked as silently, as thoroughly, as understandingly as she had with him?  Did she always show her hand at the psychological moment?  Did she rob only the rich—­the guilty?  Was she Robin Hood in velvet, antique lace and sables?  Ah, he liked that—­Mme. Robin Hood.  He fell asleep at last and dreamed that he met Mrs. Marteen under the greenwood tree, and watched her as with unerring aim she sent a bolt from her bow through the heart of a running deer.

He awoke when the valet called him, and was amused with his dream.  Not in years had such an interest entered his life.  He rose, tubbed and breakfasted, and went, as was his wont, to his sister’s sitting room.

“Well, Polly,” he roared through the closed doors of her bedroom, “up late, as usual, I suppose!  Well, I’m off.  By the way, we aren’t using the opera box next Monday night; lend it to Mrs. Marteen.  That little girl of hers is coming out, you know, and we ought to do something for ’em now and again.  I’ll be at the library after three, if you want me.”

At the office he found a courteous note thanking him for his kindness in offering to direct her investments and inclosing Mrs. Marteen’s cheque for twenty-five thousand dollars.  Gard studied the handwriting closely.  It was firm, flowing, refined, yet daring, very straight as to alignment and spaced artistically.  Good sense, good taste, nice discrimination, he commented.  He smiled, tickled by a new idea.  He would not give the usual orders in such matters.  When a lovely lady inclosed her cheque, begging to remind him of his thoughtful suggestion (mostly mythical) at Mrs. So-and-So’s dinner, he cynically deposited