The lights had all come back to Bellair. He was miserable--the adventure palled. There had been no lift, nor tumultuous carrying away. The quick change chilled him. Her words one by one had chilled him.... At least, he had demanded a madness to-night. Bessie did not have the wine of madness in her veins. This much had been accomplished. He could not break training coldly.... And now he felt as if the day had drained him to the heart, as if the day had come to an end, and he must rest. He turned to her. “I found a little check-book for you to-day, but you must go to the bank and give them your signature. It is made of leather, small enough for your purse almost. The bank-book is with it. You will find a little account started.... And now I will call a cab for you----” “But your coffee----” she said. “Yes, we will have that----” He had to get away for a moment. His heart was desolate with hunger.... The smell of the kitchen made him think of the galley of a ship.... * * * * * “Oh, what can I do for you?” Bessie asked, when he returned. “It’s what you can do for yourself that interests me----” “But I must go with the _Follies_--if I win. It’s the career--the beginning!” “If you must.” “And when shall I see you?” “Here to-morrow night--if you will.” “Yes,” she said eagerly. 4 On the way to Lot & Company’s the next morning Bellair smiled at the sense of personal injustice which had returned to him. He held fast to a sort of philosophical calm, but permitted his energy to be excited by a peculiar blending of contempt and desire to wring the truth from Lot & Company at any price. Suddenly he stopped. Lot & Company was merely something to master. Lot & Company was but an organised bit of the world which he had met; all men had their own organisations to face, to comprehend the vileness and illusion of, and then to get underfoot, neck and other vitals.... Bessie had helped him. There was something in that.... He felt the fighting readiness within him, and an added warning not to raise his voice. He must deal with Lot & Company on the straight low plane of what-was-wanted. That was the single level of the firm’s understanding. Davy Acton smiled at him shyly--the first face after the pale telephone-miss at the door. Davy was more at home in these halls and floors than in the hotel dining-room. Bellair heard the jovial voice of Mr. Rawter behind his partition. From the distance, Broadwell glanced up and waved at him. Mr. Sproxley’s black eyes were fixed in his direction from behind the grating of his cage. Mr. Sproxley came forward, greeted him and returned. Bellair had asked to see the elder Mr. Wetherbee, but it appeared that Mr. Seth was not in. “I’ll speak with Mr. Nathan Lot,” said Bellair. “Mr. Lot is occupied.” “Mr. Jabez then.”