Then, before he could fairly sense it, the doctor’s motor came hurtling down the street, its search-lights glaring, swinging from side to side.  The machine stopped, and Von Rosen ran to the door.

“Here I am,” said Sturtevant in a hushed voice.  There was a sound from the room above, and the doctor, Von Rosen and nurse looked at each other.  Then Von Rosen sat again alone in his study, and now, in spite of the closed door, he heard noises above stairs.  Solitude was becoming frightful to him.  He felt all at once strangely young, like a child, and a pitiful sense of injury was over him, but the sense of injury was not for himself alone, but for all mankind.  He realised that all mankind was enormously pitiful and injured, by the mere fact of their obligatory existence.  And he wished more than anything in the world for some understanding soul with whom to share his sense of the universal grievance.

But he continued to sit alone, and the cat slept in his golden coil of peace.  Then suddenly the cat sat up, and his jewel eyes glowed.  He looked fixedly at a point in the room.  Von Rosen looked in the same direction but saw nothing except his familiar wall.  Then he heard steps on the stairs, and the door opened, and Jane Riggs entered.  She was white and stern.  She was tragic.  Her lean fingers were clutching at the air.  Von Rosen stared at her.  She sat down and swept her crackling white apron over her head.

Chapter III

When Margaret Edes had returned home after the Zenith Club, she devoted an hour to rest.  She had ample time for that before dressing for a dinner which she and her husband were to give in New York that evening.  The dinner was set for rather a late hour in order to enable Margaret to secure this rest before the train-time.  She lay on a couch before the fire, in her room which was done in white and gold.  Her hair was perfectly arranged, for she had scarcely moved her head during the club meeting, and had adjusted and removed her hat with the utmost caution.  Now she kept her shining head perfectly still upon a rather hard pillow.  She did not relax her head, but she did relax her body, and the result, as she was aware, would be beautifying.

Still as her head remained, she allowed no lines of disturbance to appear upon her face, and for that matter, no lines of joy.  Secretly she did not approve of smiles, more than she approved of tears.  Both of them, she knew, tended to leave traces, and other people, especially other women, did not discriminate between the traces of tears and smiles.  Therefore, lying with her slim graceful body stretched out at full length upon her couch, Margaret Edes’ face was as absolutely devoid of expression as a human face could well be, and this although she was thinking rather strenuously.  She had not been pleased with the impression which Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder had made upon the Zenith Club, because Mrs. Slade, and