“A what?” Philip interposed, catching quick at the unfamiliar word with blank English astonishment, and more than ever convinced, in spite of denial, that the stranger was an American.

“An emporium,” Bertram answered, in the most matter-of-fact voice:  “a magazine, don’t you know; a place where they supply things in return for money.  I want to go up to London at once this morning and buy what I require there.”

“Oh, A shop, you mean,” Philip replied, putting on at once his most respectable British sabbatarian air.  “I can tell you of the very best tailor in London, whose cut is perfect; a fine flower of tailors:  but not to-day.  You forget you’re in England, and this is Sunday.  On the Continent, it’s different:  but you’ll find no decent shops here open to-day in town or country.”

Bertram Ingledew drew one hand over his high white brow with a strangely puzzled air.  “No more I will,” he said slowly, like one who by degrees half recalls with an effort some forgotten fact from dim depths of his memory.  “I ought to have remembered, of course.  Why, I knew that, long ago.  I read it in a book on the habits and manners of the English people.  But somehow, one never recollects these taboo days, wherever one may be, till one’s pulled up short by them in the course of one’s travels.  Now, what on earth am I to do?  A box, it seems, is the Open, Sesame of the situation.  Some mystic value is attached to it as a moral amulet.  I don’t believe that excellent Miss Blake would consent to take me in for a second night without the guarantee of a portmanteau to respectablise me.”

We all have moments of weakness, even the most irreproachable Philistine among us; and as Bertram said those words in rather a piteous voice, it occurred to Philip Christy that the loan of a portmanteau would be a Christian act which might perhaps simplify matters for the handsome and engaging stranger.  Besides, he was sure, after all—­mystery or no mystery—­Bertram Ingledew was Somebody.  That nameless charm of dignity and distinction impressed him more and more the longer he talked with the Alien.  “Well, I think, perhaps, I could help you,” he hazarded after a moment, in a dubious tone; though to be sure, if he lent the portmanteau, it would be like cementing the friendship for good or for evil; which Philip, being a prudent young man, felt to be in some ways a trifle dangerous; for who borrows a portmanteau must needs bring it back again—­which opens the door to endless contingencies.  “I might be able—­”

At that moment, their colloquy was suddenly interrupted by the entry of a lady who immediately riveted Bertram Ingledew’s attention.  She was tall and dark, a beautiful woman, of that riper and truer beauty in face and form that only declares itself as character develops.  Her features were clear cut, rather delicate than regular; her eyes were large and lustrous; her lips not too thin, but rich and tempting; her