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There was a genuine ring to the first part of his reply. But the rest of it trailed off into the old blase tone.

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I enjoyed last night so much.”

“Did you?” came back eagerly.

Before he could add anything she asked, “I suppose you are going to see Stella again this afternoon.”

“Why–er–yes,” he hesitated. “I think so.”

“Where? At Vera’s?” she asked, adopting a tone not of curiosity but of chiding him for seeing Stella instead of herself.

The moment of hesitation, before he said that he didn’t know, told her the truth. It was as good as a plain, “Yes.”

For a few moments they chatted. As she hung up the receiver after his deferential goodbye, Constance knew that she had gained a new angle from which to observe Warrington’s character. He was intensely human and he was “in wrong.” Here was a mess, all around.

The day wore on, yet brought no indecision as to what she would do, though it brought no solution as to how to do it. The inaction was worse than anything else. The last quotations had come in over the ticker, showing the Syndicate stocks still unchanged. She left her brokers and sat for a few moments in the rotunda of the hotel, considering. She could stand it no longer. Whatever happened, she would run around to Charmant’s. Some excuse would occur when she got there.

As Constance alighted from the private elevator, a delicate scent as of attar of roses smote lightly on her, and there was, if anything, a greater air of exotic warmth about the place. Everything, from the electric bulbs buried deep in the clusters of amber artificial flowers to the bright green leaves on the dainty trellises, the little square-paned windows and white furniture, bespoke luxury. There was an inviting “tone” to it all.

“I’m glad I’ve found you,” began Constance to Stella, as though nothing had happened. “There is something I’d like to say to you besides thanking you most kindly for the good time last–“

“Is there anything I can do for you?” interrupted Madame Charmant in a business like tone. “I am sure that Miss Larue invited you last night because she thought you were lonely. She and Mr. Warrington, you know, are old friends.”

Charmant emphasized the remark to mean, “You trespassed on forbidden ground, if you thought you could get him away.”

Constance seemed not to notice the implication.

“There is something I’d like to say,” she repeated gently.

She picked up a little inking pad which lay on a mahogany secretary which Vera used as an office desk.

“If you will be so kind, Stella, as to place your fingers flat on this pad-never mind about the ink; call Floretta; she will wipe them off afterwards-and then on this piece of paper, I won’t bother you further.”

Almost before she knew it, the little actress had placed her dainty white hand on the pad and then on the paper.

Constance did the same, to illustrate, then called Floretta. “If Vera will do as I have done,” she said, offering her the pad, and taking her hand. Charmant complied, and when Floretta arrived her impressions were added to the others.

“There’s a man wishes to see you, outside, Madame,” said Floretta, wiping off the soiled finger tips.

“Tell him to wait–in the little room.”

Floretta opened the door to go out and through it Constance caught sight of a familiar face.

A moment later the man was in the room with them. It was Drummond, the same sneer, the same assurance in his manner.

“So,” he snarled at Constance. “You here?”

“I seem to be here,” she answered calmly. “Why?”

“Never mind why,” he blustered. “I knew you saw me the other night. I heard you tell ’em to hit it up so as to shake me. But I found out all right.”

“Found out what?” asked Constance coldly.

“Say, that’s about your style, isn’t it? You always get in when it comes to trimming the good spenders, don’t you?”