“Let us say an explorer,” suggested her father. He knew that the word which was in her mind was _Englishman_. She only checked herself when her imagination caused her to perceive the average silk-hatted man with his tongue in his cheek at the utterance of the phrase. “Let us say ‘unworthy of an explorer,’” repeated her father; “that is an elastic phrase.” Phyllis was irritated. “I have talked with him,” she said a trifle coldly. “Yes,” said her father, “once.” “I should have said that I know Ella.” “And yet Ella is a woman!” “Oh, the charges are too ridiculous! Slaves! What nonsense! We all know what slavery is. Well, where are his slaves now? If he only hired the natives for a month or two they were only servants, not slaves. The thing is manifestly ridiculous.” “Then why should we trouble ourselves with the attempt to rebut it?” “Because so many people are idiots nowadays,” cried Phyllis warmly. “Because, no matter how ridiculous a charge which is brought against a distinguished person may be, some people will be found ready to believe in its truth. Never mind; I’ll find out the truth; I’ll go to Ella.” “The fountain-head indeed,” said Mr. Ayrton. “When in search of the truth, go to a woman.” “I will, at any rate,” said Phyllis. And she went thither. CHAPTER XII. DYNAMITE--SLAVE-DEALING--MASSACRES--ARMENIA! Phyllis, of course, knew when to go to Ella with the certainty of finding her at home. At the luncheon hour Mrs. Linton was always visible to the three friends whom she had within the confines of Mayfair. She considered herself blessed among women in the numerical strength of her friendships; and so perhaps she was; she had three. She was in one of her drawing rooms--the one that was decorated with water colors set in fluted panels of yellow silk--not the one with the pink blinds so beloved by those of her visitors who had reached an age to regard a pink light as a woman’s best friend. She was wearing a new gown which Phyllis, in spite of her enthusiasm on behalf of a brave man maligned, found admirable both as regards fabric, fit, and fashion. Then followed a word or two of commendation of the artists who had been concerned in its production. They had not been absurd about the sleeves, and they had not vetoed the sweep of lace--it was about half a yard wide--which the person who occupied so insignificant a position as is usually allocated to the mere wearer of the gown had suggested for the bodice. The gown was an unequivocal success, and had Ella seen the disgraceful article which had appeared in the _Spiritual Aneroid_ on the subject of Mr. Courtland’s explorations? Ella smiled a slow smile, as the question joined the congratulation without the lapse of a breath. “The _Spiritual Aneroid_? Who is the _Spiritual Aneroid_? What is the _Spiritual Aneroid_?” she asked. “Oh, a newspaper. What could a newspaper with such a funny name have to say about Mr. Courtland?”