There was no embarrassment at the meeting. Both were highly civilized, educated, up-to-date; with a kindred instinct of what to admit or ignore, a knowledge of the times when silence or speech was best. The lady made no reference to the _impasse_ of the night before, and Lionel was too full of the present to dwell churlishly on the past. Instead, they talked cheerfully of trivialities for a time, and then Miss Blair announced her intention of going out to do some shopping. "I will not ask you to come with me," she observed smiling, "for I can guess how bored you would be. But I shall be with you again for lunch. For the present, au revoir." Lionel, who would cheerfully have carried a score of parcels or hat-boxes for the pleasure of her company, had no choice but to acquiesce. There was no pressing reason for returning to his lodgings--indeed, there was every reason for staying away until he could earn some money. True, there was no immediate prospect of acquiring any; but at least he was in the middle of an interesting experience, and he had promised to help in a burglary. So with a fine disregard of circumstances he chose the most comfortable armchair and the lightest novel he could find, and put the cigarette-box within easy reach. Thus he passed an unprofitable but pleasant morning. Miss Blair returned soon after one o'clock, and they had lunch together. In the afternoon they went for a drive in a hired motor to Thames Ditton. They stopped there for tea and got back to Bloomsbury about seven. Lionel was put down at the flat and Miss Blair went on to the theater, from which she returned late at night. Supper followed, and then they smoked and chatted for half an hour before going to bed. Lionel had expected to hear more of the conspiracy and projected felony, but nothing was said. Wherefore he kept silence, awaited events, and went to sleep, wondering whether a farce or tragedy was being played. This uneventful life went on for several days, during which he had plenty of time to study his hostess. He learned nothing more than he knew already. A brilliant and charming personality, grave or humorous as occasion demanded, apparently sincere in her conviction of a great conspiracy, devoted to her absent husband, resolute to strike when opportunity offered--such was Beatrice Blair. When he was in her company he could not doubt her; alone, he could not help wondering what this Arabian Night might mean. The utter fantasy of it all bewildered him, but even if false he could not conceive her motive. In the end he usually came back to the conclusion that the apparently absurd was true, and always that at all costs he would see it through to the end.