Barry was taking Aunt Micky to dine that evening at a restaurant on Forty-seventh Street, which legitimately enjoyed the reputation of owning a good cellar. Jim Sakers was joining them, and bringing Jack Lorrimer. Jack was Barry’s cousin. She was very pretty, having missed the Cumberland nose. Following dinner, they were going to see the most improper play on Broadway. The event was in honour of Aunt Micky, who occasionally indulged in what she termed “a night of pure sin.” Having dressed, Barry was sitting smoking in the library when she came down. He had been studying the figure of a slender priestess from the temple at Dendera. “Well, young Cumberland,” came a deep female voice, “dreaming again?” Barry turned--he was seated on the edge of the library table--and smiled at the speaker. Countess Colonna was a woman of medium height, sturdily built, and deep-chested, as were all the Cumberlands. Her crisp gray hair was closely bobbed; her unflinching steel-gray eyes looked out from under thick, dark eyebrows to tell the world that a dissolute husband had not crushed her spirit. She had been handsome in her youth. The Cumberland nose in a woman was not unattractive. Her dress was somewhat masculine, consisting of a smart dinner jacket with white silk waistcoat--the latter cut moderately low--a short black skirt, black silk stockings, and chic black shoes. That she had hitherto refrained from wearing trousers Barry regarded as a concession, for which he was duly grateful. “Hello, Micky,” he said--“all set?” “Surely,” his aunt replied, lighting a very large cigarette and replacing the lighter in the pocket of her jacket. “I have always avoided your speak-easy, young Cumberland, because I don’t want to be mixed up in a raid. But, as I don’t care for whisky with dinner, I have fallen.” “Splendid,” replied Barry, laughing. “We shall make you a complete sinner yet.” “I aim to be,” said Aunt Micky, “on my ‘night.’ The night over, there isn’t a better citizen in the United States than Michael Colonna.” “There isn’t a better sport in the world,” added Barry affectionately. “Pity you never married again, Micky.” “Don’t be a damn’ fool!” was the reply. As they came down the steps to the street: “Hello!” said Barry, “why have we got the big car?” “John has taken the other,” his aunt replied. She wore a French cape, red-lined, with which in the high wind she was struggling valiantly. “Where has he gone?” Barry asked, as Hemingway held open the door of the car. “He is dining with the man Danbazzar,” Aunt Micky answered, getting in. “That means he’s spending money,” Barry mused as he dropped down upon the seat beside her. “What is it this time? A scarab or half the side of a temple?” “Can’t say.” His aunt shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t like Danbazzar. Fascinating man, but don’t like him.” “Oddly enough, I have never met him,” Barry said. “But I know he has done business with Dad for years.”