Within, an operator wearing a receiving head-dress, sat among his instruments. Beside a window which commanded a view of the entrance, His Highness placed a chair for her. “The gates will open soon,” he advised. “Watch the new arrivals trickle in and call me in case you catch sight of your John. I am pardonably impatient to meet him.” To sink into the chair was a relief. At sight of the preparations outside which the pigmy ushers were making for the reception of the evening’s recruits, Dolores’ mental pulse accelerated. She strove for the strong thoughts which lately had sustained her and tried to keep out of her expression the pinch of hope long deferred. “Are these likenesses, sweet Grief?” Turning, she found Satan at her elbow, offering her half-a-dozen sepia-like photographs. She took them; looked; exclaimed: “John--_wonderful!_ And this is Catherine at her best. How splendid of dear Clarke Shayle! Rufus Holt, too. Have you had them made for me? But why include these of Vincent Seff and Dr. Willard? I’d rather forget them.” “Does the murderer forget the features of the slain? Nay, fair assassin, you won’t need this collection for your dressing table to remember your victims. These are stills selected from our stock of life-films. I am glad you pronounce them such likenesses, for I’m sending them up to old Mors of the Mystery Gate to hang in his rogues’ gallery.” “To Mors?” Satan nodded. “I mean to put a stop-order on the lot, in case any of them come through ticketed to Elysium. I need their kind down here.” “But I thought it was written in the tome called Judgments of Men where shades should spend the time until the Call,” she puzzled. “Doesn’t each enter his new estate as he left the old? Must not his Earth record hold?” His Highness frowned at the reminder. “Just because a rule never has been broken is no reason why it never will be. I may try, mayn’t I? Queer if I can’t frighten Mors into making a few exceptions.” He turned to the operator. “Get the old ghoul. I would a word with him.” The connection soon was made. Ensued a brief exchange, but one so vehement that the operator cautioned his master to calm down, lest he blow out all the fuses about the place. “There is one of them I must have, old-timer,” Satan continued less offensively. “John Cabot by name and physiognomy. Likely to come through this very night.... _What_ ... What for, in the name of Hell?... Gallantry on Earth, eh?... Death, you’re a choicer fool than your sister Birth!” As he banged the receiver on its hook, Dolores arose. “John has gone on--up into Elysium?” Her voice was more faint from surprise than his had been strong. “He won’t--- come down--this way?” At the nod which His Highness spared her from his rage, she crossed the room, went out the door and down the steps. She was well along the path when he caught up with and stopped her.