There was a puzzled line between the Instructor’s thick, fair eyebrows. He was ready to swear it was the same girl. But the face that had looked into his that night in Paris was somehow softer, younger.... It was not only the alteration in the colour of the hair.... If you had taken the big, hearty, smiling young woman of the Milles Plaisirs, and dipped her into a vat of hydrogen peroxide, so that not only her hair but her whole body had been bleached, you would not have accomplished such a transformation—unless the chemical had possessed the power to change the colour of her mind and soul. The girl of the Milles Plaisirs had looked at you frankly, and spoken to you like a pal. In that atmosphere of sexual excitement, amongst those crowds of men and women, flushed with meat and wine and the desire of sensual pleasure, she had appealed to Sherbrand like a heather-scented breeze from the North. Beautiful and big and sisterly, she had seemed to him who had no sisters. He had often wondered how she came to be in that place. But it had never occurred to him to lump her with the ordinary pleasure-seeker. He had read—more correctly than von Herrnung, who believed her from the first to have bitten deep into the Fruit of Knowledge—Purity if not ignorance, in her wide curving smile, and honesty in her clear unshadowed eyes. What eyes they were, long, brilliant, blackly-lashed, browny-green as agate. What a wonderful voice came out of the depths of her splendid chest. The arch of her breastbone reminded you of a violoncello. How splendidly her head was set upon its column of warm, living ivory! Her firm round chin had a dint in it that the old Greek sculptor had failed to bestow upon the glorious Venus de Melos, the Lady of the Isle of Music. Everything about her was planned on the scale of magnificence. Six feet tall, she walked the earth like a goddess, or as women must have walked when the Sons of Light mated with the daughters of men. Thus Sherbrand, meditating on his Fate to be, while Destiny limped towards him in the person of an undersized telegraph-clerk whose complexion, previously pallid, had deteriorated to dirty green. He began, extending a shaky hand, from which dangled a slip of limp paper: "For you, sir. Rumball ’adn’t got a picklock among his tools, so ’e burst in the door with a No. 10 spanner. They rung us up about twenty times while he was at the job. And the message is important, sir!" "I’ll see! Thank you, Burgin!" Sherbrand took the telegram from the jerky hand and read: "_Your—German—acquaintance—suspected—agent— robbery—documents—national—importance. At—all— costs—keep—him—until—I—come._"