"That would hardly be ethical," was the smug reply. "Of course if the crematory cared to take the responsibility of departing from my order, you could take it to some other embalmer." "Can you suggest anybody?" asked Greg slyly. "Well, there's my son," replied the clay-faced one blandly. "He is just starting in business for himself. But it's in Brooklyn." "That doesn't matter." He gave an address. "Thank you very much," said Greg dryly. "Where is the crematory?" "Silver Pond, Long Island. About eighteen miles out on the Port Franklin branch." "What time are you sending the body out there?" "It leaves here about five. I understand they are always put on the eight-fifteen train arriving at Silver Pond about nine." "Is the crematory near the station?" "Some three miles distant, I believe; in a very lonely neighborhood." Greg thanked him and they parted, having reached an excellent understanding after all. Greg called up the Marsden Farms Hotel from a telephone booth. Loverlike, he anticipated a melancholy satisfaction in telling the girl who had used him so badly, as he told himself, how he had been working in her behalf. He was prepared to be nobly cold and self-sacrificing and virtuous. Unfortunately for these fine feelings he was told by the office of the hotel that no one of the name of de Socotra was stopping there. Thinking perhaps they might have registered under an assumed name, he described the ladies, but was assured that no such persons had arrived during the day. Once more jealousy, anger and rage had full sway over him. She had purposely given him the slip, he told himself. She had only used him the night before for her own purposes. Very questionable purposes they seemed now. Well, he'd be hanged if he did any more for her! If he couldn't find her again he would donate the three hundred dollars to a worthy charity. Even while he raged against her a still small voice whispered to him that the glance of her flamelike eyes had been clear and true, but he would not have it so. The more he told himself he would think no longer of her, the more the mystery of her teased him. If she were de Socotra's daughter how could she be an American as she had so proudly asserted? And if she were de Socotra's daughter how could she turn against her own father even though she had discovered he was a villain. That she was not deficient in natural affection her grief on learning of her uncle's death had shown; but Greg could not conceive of a daughter putting a mere uncle above her father. And if she loved America and Americans how could she possibly think of allying herself to anything so essentially un-American as the exquisite, enervated Castilian youth with his little head and his vacant, arrogant glance? In the turmoil of his feelings Greg walked all the way down-town to the taxi-yard. As he passed through the little store Bessie told him there was a man waiting to see him.