He was a handsome chap enough, and he would have considerable money when the present business was completed, yet, somehow he did not appeal, even to her mercenary side.  Moreover she no longer dealt in his sort.  Time was when he would have served admirably, but she was done with plucking for plucking’s sake.  She plucked still, but neither so ruthlessly nor so omnivorously as of yore.  She did not need; nor was she so gregarious in her tastes.  She could pick and choose, and wait—­and have some joy of Him and take her time; be content not to pluck him clean, and so retain his friendship even after he had been displaced.  With her now it was the man in high office or of high estate at whom she aimed—­and her aim was usually true.  Neither with one of her tastes and tendencies was monogamy apt to be attractive nor practiced—­though at times it subserved her expediency.  At present, it was the Count de M——­, an English Cabinet Minister, and a Russian Grand Duke;—­but discreetly, oh, so discreetly that none ever dreamed of the others, and the public never dreamed of them.  To all outward appearances, she dwelt in the odor of eminent respectability and sedate gaiety.

“Drive slowly through Rock Creek Park until I tell you to return,” she ordered the man when they had passed beyond the station; then withdrew into a corner of the taxi, and busied herself with her thoughts.

It was almost two hours later that she gave him the Collingwood as a destination.

At the Collingwood she dismissed the taxi, and without sending up her name passed directly up to Mrs. Chartrand’s apartment.

Miss Williams, who was on duty at the telephone desk, saw her—­and whistled softly.  The instant the elevator door clanged shut, she rang Harleston.

“If you can come down a moment, Mr. Harleston,” she said softly, “I have some interesting information for you; it may not be well to—­you know.”

“I’ll be down at once,” Harleston replied.

When he appeared, it was with his hat and stick, as though he were going out.

“If anyone calls, Miss Williams,” he remarked, pausing by her desk, “I’ll be back in about half an hour.”

“Very well, Mr. Harleston,” she replied.  Then she lowered her voice.  “Your slender lady of the ripples, of the other night, has just come in.  She’s young, and a perfect peach for looks.”

“Who is she?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  She didn’t have herself announced; she went straight on up.  Ben!” motioning to the elevator boy, “where did the slender woman, you just took up, get off?”

“At the fou’th flo’, Miss Williams,” said Ben.  “She went into fo’ one.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yas, Miss,” the negro grinned, “I waited to see.”

Miss Williams nodded a dismissal.

“Four one is Chartrands’ apartment,” she remarked.

“Is this the lady of the ripples?” Harleston asked, handing her the photograph of Madeline Spencer.