“Young lady from the _Epoch_ waiting to see you, sir,” said the servant at Carmichael’s lodgings, encountering him in the hallway of that domicile, as he let himself in by a pass-key late one afternoon after a round of calls. Carmichael was the picture of self-satisfied complacency. In attire, in bearing, he knew himself to be above criticism by the well informed; and yet his vanity did not disdain the looks of heartfelt admiration cast upon him by the hand-maidens to whom his landlady paid small wages for the promiscuous service of her house. “Another reporter!” he exclaimed, petulantly. “Did I not tell you never to let them wait for me?” “She’s in there, sir, not in your sittin’-room,” went on the girl, pointing to the closed door of the boarding-house parlor. “She said it was _very_ important, Mr. Carmichael.” Smiling at the awe-struck expression of the domestic, whose class can never rid itself of respect for private individuals “wanted” by the press, he opened the door of a long, narrow apartment with abundant cheap draperies, spindle-work furniture, and artificial palms, to find himself confronted by an unwelcome apparition. “You!” he said, in a tone from which all self-complacency had fled. “Yes, I. I was assigned to you, and I had to come. Until now I have been fortunate in avoiding such a contingency.” “I did not know you were in New York,” he stammered, to gain time. “I got this appointment on the _Epoch_ last season, through a friend. But I came here first in summer, when you were cruising on Mr. Compton’s yacht. You see it is not difficult for me to keep account of your movements, you are such a great man now; and besides, the others tell me you are very good in giving them items about your plans.” Carmichael colored. He could not believe that the cool, satiric, self-reliant speaker was the orphaned sister who for years had made him the god of her idolatry. “You are looking well,” he said; “your profession seems to agree with you. I hope you have comfortable quarters. And if there is anything I can do for you now, perhaps you will tell me as soon as may be, since I am engaged for dinner and have some letters to write before dressing.” “They sent me to ask you the correct date of the Bachelor’s Ball, and any items about the affair you may wish to publish,” she answered, fixing upon his evasive eyes a pair of clear, bright orbs. “That is easily done,” he replied, with an air of relief. “Or stop; leave me your address, and I will send you the full data to-morrow after the committee meets.” “Send it to me at the office, please. But now that our business is so satisfactorily disposed of there is another little matter about which I should like to speak to you in a more private place.” “But I am pressed for time, I tell you!” he exclaimed, uneasily. “It is something in the nature of a warning,” she said, with a mocking intonation. “But just as you choose, of course.”