‘Yes, sir.’

Other employes in the trying-on room looked furtively round.

’About half-past eleven an old gentleman, with white moustache, came into this room, Miss Payne.  You remember?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He was inquiring about a hat, sir,’ she hurriedly answered.

‘For a lady?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

And he hastened back to his central office, and breathed a sigh.  ’I have actually spoken to her,’ he murmured.  ‘How charming her voice is!’

But Miss Payne’s physical condition desolated him.  If she was so obviously exhausted at 12.30, what would she be like at the day’s end?’

‘I’ve got it!’ he cried.

He seized a pen and wrote:  ’Notice.—­The public are respectfully informed that this establishment will close to-day at two o’clock.’

He rang a bell, and a messenger appeared.

’Take this to the printing-office instantly, and tell Mr. Waugh it must be posted throughout the place in half an hour.’

Shortly after two o’clock Sloane Street was amazed to witness the exodus of the three thousand odd.  The closure was attributed to a whim of Hugo’s for celebrating some obscure anniversary in his life.  Many hundreds of persons were inconvenienced, and the internal economy of scores of polite homes seriously deranged.  The evening papers found a paragraph.  And Hugo lost perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds net.  But Hugo was happy, and he was expectant.

At ten o’clock that night a youngish man, extremely like Simon Shawn, was brought by Simon into Hugo’s presence under the dome.  This was Simon’s brother, Albert Shawn, a member of Hugo’s private detective force.

‘Sit down,’ said Hugo.  ‘Well?’

‘I reckon you’ve heard, sir,’ Albert Shawn began impassively, ’the yarn that’s going all round the stores.’

‘I have not.’

‘Everyone’s whispering,’ said Albert Shawn, gazing carefully at his boots, ‘that Mr. Hugo has taken a kind of a fancy to Miss Payne.’

Hugo restrained himself.

‘Heavens!’ he exclaimed, with a clever affectation of lightness, ’what next?  I’ve only spoken to the chit once.’

‘Don’t I know it, sir!’

‘Enough of that!  What have you to report?’

’Miss Payne left at 2.15, whipped round to the flats entrance, took the lift to the top-floor, went into Mr. Francis Tudor’s flat.’

‘What’s that you say?  Whose flat?’ cried Hugo.

‘Mr. Francis Tudor’s, sir.’

Mr. Tudor was famous as the tenant of the suite rented at two thousand a year; he had a reputation for being artistic, sybaritic, and something in the inner ring of the City.

‘Ah!’ said Hugo.  ‘Perhaps she is a friend of one of Mr. Tudor’s—­’

‘Servants,’ he was about to say, but the idea of Miss Payne being on terms of equality with a menial was not pleasant to him, and he stopped.