The American caught the note of hesitation in his voice. “Perhaps you will turn it over in your mind,” he said, fumbling with a hand in his inner breast-pocket. “Allow me, sir, to hand you my card. Adele, you have a pencil? Thank you. I will inscribe upon it the name of the hotel at which we are residing.” Mosscrop took the card, glanced at it, and nodded. “In the extremely improbable event of my changing my mind, I will let you know,” he said. “Good day.” As they were parting, the father seemed to read in the daughter’s eye that he was forgetting something. He hesitated for a brief space; then his kindly face brightened. “Excuse me, sir,” he observed, “but I have neglected to inform myself as to your identity--if I may presume to that extent.” David felt vainly in his pocket. “I haven’t a card with me. My name is David Mosscrop. The Barbary Club will find me. I will write it for you.” The old man scrutinized the scrawl in his note-book, and then, after more bows, led his daughter away. She walked after him in a proudly indifferent fashion, with her head in the air, and something almost like a swagger in the movements of her form. Mosscrop watched them with a ruminating eye till they had left the room. Then he glanced at the card, and gave a little laugh. “Mr. Laban Skinner, Paris, Kentucky.--Savoy Hotel,” he read aloud. “Skinner? Is their name Skinner?” demanded Vestalia with eagerness. “None other. Why? It’s a good name for them, isn’t it?” “Oh yes--good enough,” the girl replied, speaking now with exaggerated nonchalance. “Quaint people these Americans are!” commented Mosscrop. “If I were to put that old chap’s speeches down literally in a book nobody would credit them. Fancy the fate of a young woman condemned to be dragged around the globe chained to a preposterous old phonograph like that! It really wrings one’s heart to think of it. Mighty good-looking girl too.” Vestalia withdrew her arm. “Perhaps,” she said, icily, “if you were to make haste you might overtake them. I must insist on your not allowing me to detain you, if you are so interested. I shall do quite well by myself.” Mosscrop gathered her meaning slowly, after a grave scrutiny of her flushed and perturbed face. When it came to him, he shouted his merriment. A glance around the chamber showed him that they were alone with the lions and carved effigies of Sardanapalus. He thrust an arm about Vestalia’s waist, and gave it a boisterous though fleeting squeeze. “Why, you dear little canary-bird of a creature, do you suppose I’ve been forgetting you?” he cried. “Haven’t I been thinking every minute of the touch of your arm in mine? Haven’t I been cursing that old windbag ceaselessly because he was interrupting our birthday? Look up at me! Truly now, aren’t you ashamed?”