Amarilly snatched it from his grasp and fled. Not because of his low- figured offer; she had fully expected to have to "beat him up." But when she had entered, a youth who had all the recognized earmarks of a reporter was lounging in the doorway. At sight of the uplifted garment he had come eagerly forward, scenting a story. She knew his kind from snatches of conversation she had heard between the leading lady and Lord Algernon. In the lore of the stage at Barlow's, reporters were "hovering vultures" who always dropped down when least wanted, and they had a way of dragging to light the innermost thoughts of their victims. "You read your secrets," Lord Algernon had dramatically declared, "in blazoned headlines." Hitherto Amarilly had effectually silenced her instinctive rebellion against the profaning of St. John's surplice, but she had reached the limit. No Max Solstein, no threatening landlord, no ruthless reporter should thrust the sacred surplice into the publicity of print. She darted from the shop, the reporter right at her heels, but the chasing of his covey to corner was not easily accomplished. He was a newly fledged reporter, and Amarilly had all the instinct of the lowly for localities. She turned and doubled and dodged successfully. By a course circuitous she returned to Hebrew haunts, this time to seek, one Abram Canter, a little wizened, gnome-like Jew. Assuring herself that there was no other than the proprietor within, Amarilly entered and handed over the surplice for appraisal. Once more the garment was held aloft. At that psychological moment an elderly man of buxom build, benevolent in mien, and with smooth, long hair that had an upward rolling tendency at the ends, looked in the shop as he was passing. He halted, hesitated, and then entered. Of him, however, Amarilly felt no apprehension. "Looks like Quaker Oats, or mebby it's the Jack of Spades," she thought after a searching survey. "My child, is that yours?" he asked of Amarilly, indicating the garment by a protesting forefinger. "Sure thing!" she acknowledged frankly. "Where did you get it?" If he had been a young man, Amarilly would have cheerfully reminded him that it was none of his business, but, a respecter of age, she loftily informed him that it had been "give to her." "By whom?" he persisted. Perceiving her reluctance to answer, he added gently: "I am a bishop of the Episcopal Church, and I cannot endure to see a surplice in such a place as this." A bishop! This was worse than a reporter even. St. John would surely hear of it! But she felt that an explanation was due the calling of her interlocutor. She lifted righteous eyes to his. "My mother works for one of the churches, and the minister, he give us this to cut up into clo'es fer the chillern, but we didn't cut it up. I'm agoin' to leave it here till the rent's paid, and we git the money to take it outen hock." The bishop's eyes softened, and lost their look of shocked dignity.