Kirk moved through the crowd as if in a trance, but he was beginning to realize the truth now; it surged over him in great waves of gladness. He longed to shout his news aloud. What luck was his! The world was made for him; there was no such thing as adversity or failure--Chiquita was his wife! All Christendom might go to pot for all he cared; that marvellous fact was unalterable. Yes, and he could speak his mind to Mrs. Cortlandt. His tentative acceptance of the terms she made sickened him. He wanted to rid himself of this false position as soon as possible. What mattered her threats? What did he care for the things she could give or withhold when all the glad open world was beckoning to him and to his bride? Success! Riches! He could win them for himself. Chiquita was all and more than they, and he was a god! In the midst of his rhapsody he heard a bell-boy speaking his name, and smiled at him vacantly as he turned away. But the negro followed him persistently, saying something about a letter. "Letter? I have no time to write letters. Oh, I beg pardon, letter for ME?" He took the missive from the silver tray and stuffed it absent-mindedly into a pocket, fumbling meanwhile for a tip. "I don't seem to have any money, my boy, but money, after all, means nothing." "It is h'impartant, sar." "Oh yes, the letter. Very well." He opened the envelope and pretended to read, but in reality the sheet held nothing for him but a ravishing, mischievous face, with pansy eyes. He must have stood staring unseeingly at it for several seconds. Then the dancing visions faded and the scrawl stood out plainly: Williams, detective, St. Louis, arrived at Colon this evening on the Prince Joachim. You'd better take it on the run. It was written upon Tivoli paper, but the hand was strange and it was not signed. "Well!" Kirk came suddenly to himself, and a spasm of disgust seized him. "What a rotten inconvenience!" he said aloud. But before he had time to measure the effect of this new complication the swelling music reminded him that this dance belonged to Mrs. Cortlandt and that her answer was due. She was waiting for him in the gallery, and motioned him to the chair adjoining hers. "I can't two-step and talk at the same time," she said, "and here we'll be quite private." Kirk remained standing. "What I have to say won't take long. I've made up my mind, and I--" Edith interrupted him with a lightness that her look belied: