The young man’s blood was stirred. Mademoiselle Violet stood to him for the whole wonderful world of romance, into which he had peered dimly from behind the counter of an Islington emporium. Her low voice--so strange to his ears after the shrill chatter of the young ladies of his acquaintance--the mystery of her coming and going, all went to give color to the single dream of his unimaginative life. Apart from her, he was a somewhat vulgar, entirely commonplace young man, of saving habits, and with some aptitude for business, in a small way. He had been well on his way to becoming a small but successful shopkeeper, thereby realizing the only ideals which had yet presented themselves to him, when Madame Violet had unconsciously intervened. Of what might become of him now he had no clear conception of himself. “I’ll go!” he declared. Mademoiselle Violet’s eyes flashed behind her veil. Her fingers touched his for a moment. “It is a long way,” she said. “I don’t care,” he answered valiantly. “To--America!” “America!” he gasped. “But--is this a joke, Miss Violet?” She shook her head. “Of course not! America is not a great journey.” “But it will cost--” She laughed softly. “My mistress is very rich,” she said. “The cost does not matter at all. You will have all the money you can spend--and more.” He felt himself short of breath, and bereft of words. “Gee whiz!” he murmured. They sat there in silence for a few moments. A promenading couple put their heads behind the screen, and withdrew with the sound of feminine giggling. Outside, the piano was being thumped to the tune of a popular polka. “But what have I go to do?” he asked. “To watch a man who will go out by the same steamer as you,” she answered. “Write to London, tell me what he does, how he spends his time, whether he is ill or well. You must stay at the same hotel in New York, and try and find out what his business is there. Remember, we want to know, my mistress and I, everything that he does.” “Who is he?” he asked. “A friend of your mistress?” “No!” she answered shortly, “an enemy. A cruel enemy--the cruelest enemy a woman could have!” The subdued passion of her tone thrilled him. He felt himself bewildered--in touch with strange things. She leaned a little closer towards him, and that mysterious perfume, which was one of her many fascinations, dazed him with its sweetness. “If you could send home word,” she whispered, “that he was ill, that anything had happened to him, that he was not likely to return--our fortunes would be made--yours and mine.” “Stop!” he muttered. “You--phew! It’s hot here!” He wiped the perspiration recklessly from his forehead with a red silk handkerchief. “What made you come to me?” he asked. “I don’t even know the name of your mistress.” “And you must not ask it,” she declared quietly. “It is better for you not to know. I came to you because you were a man, and I knew that I could trust you.”