“... We’ll set you on your way.” “Goose!” “One goes to Croydon best by Underground,” the pale-looking girl remarked. Miss Sinquier winced. “Underground!” Her lip quivered. “Is there anything the matter?” “Only——” Folding her arms upon the table she sank despairingly forward and burst into tears. “Poor Mrs. Bromley!” she sobbed. “In the name of _Fortune._...” The pale young woman wondered. “What has Serephine said? What has Mrs. Sixsmith done?” “Monstrous tease!” The stout man wagged a finger. “Wicked!” he commented. The lady addressed kindled. “I merely advised her to go Underground. By tube.” “Oh God,” Miss Sinquier shook. “It’s hysteria. Poor thing, you can see she’s overwrought.” “Give her a _fine;_ _un bon petit cognac._” “Waiter!” “Garçon.” “Never mind, Precious,” the fat man crooned. “You shall ride in a comfy taxi-cab with me.” “No; indeed she shan’t,” Mrs. Sixsmith snapped. “You may rely on me, Ernest, for that!” Rejecting the proffered spirits with a gesture, Miss Sinquier controlled her grief. “It’s not _often_ I’m so silly,” she said. “There, there!” “Excuse this exhibition....” Mrs. Sixsmith squeezed her hand. “My poor child,” she said, “I fear you’ve had a shock.” “It’s over now.” “I’m so glad.” “You’ve been very good.” “Not at all. You interest me.” “Why?” “Why? Why?... I’m sure I can’t say _why_! But directly I saw you....” “It’s simply wonderful.” “You marched in here for all the world like some great coquette.” “You mean the Father Christmas at the door?” “Tell me what had happened.” In a few words Miss Sinquier recounted her tale. “My dear,” Mrs. Sixsmith said, “I shouldn’t think of it again. I expect this Mrs. Bromley was nothing but an old procuress.” “A procuress?” “A stage procuress.” “How dreadful it sounds.” “Have you no artistic connections in town _at all_?” “Not really....” “Then here, close at hand ... sitting with you and me,” she informally presented, “Is Mr. Ernest Stubbs, whose wild wanderings in the Gog-magog hills in sight of Cambridge, orchestrally described, recently thrilled us all. Next to him—tuning his locks and twisting his cane—you’ll notice Mr. Harold Weathercock, an exponent of calf-love parts at the Dream. And, beyond, blackening her nose with a cigarette, sprawls the most resigned of women—Miss Whipsina Peters, a daughter of the famous flagelist—and a coryphée herself.” Miss Peters nodded listlessly. “Toodle-doo,” she murmured. “As a coryphée, I suppose her diamonds are a sight?” “A sight!” Mrs. Sixsmith closed her eyes. “They’re all laid up in lavender, I fear.” “In lavender?” “Pledged.” “Oh, poor soul.” “Just now you spoke of a necklace of your own ... a pearl rope, or something, that you wish to sell.” “Unhappily I’m obliged.” “I’ve a notion I might be of service in the matter.” “How?”