Van Teyl threw himself into a chair and accepted the cup of tea which his sister handed him. "Well," he inquired, "what do you make of it?" "There's more in that question than you think, James," Pamela replied. "All the same, I think I shall be able to answer it in a few days." Another little crowd of acquaintances discovered them, and Pamela was soon surrounded by a fresh group of admirers. They all went out presently to inspect the new tennis courts. Pamela and her brother were beset with invitations. "You positively must stay down and dine with us, and go home by moonlight," Mrs. Saunders, a lively young matron with a large country house close by, insisted. "Jimmy's neglected me terribly these last few months, and as for you, Pamela, I haven't seen you for a year." "I'd love to if we can," Pamela assured her, "but Jimmy will have to telephone first." "Then do be quick about it," Mrs. Saunders begged, "It doesn't matter a bit about clothes. We've twenty people staying in the house now, and half of us won't change, if that makes you more comfortable. Jimmy, if you fail at that telephone I'll never forgive you." But Van Teyl, who had caught the little motion of his sister's head towards the city, proved equal to the occasion. He returned presently, driving the car. "Got to go," he announced as he made his farewells. "Can't be helped, Pamela. Frightfully sorry, Mrs. Saunders, we are wanted up in New York." Pamela sighed. "I was so afraid of it," she regretted as she waved her adieux. . . . . An hour or so later the city broke before them in murky waves. Pamela, who had been leaning back in the car, deep in thought, sat up. "You are a perfect dear, James," she said. "Do you think you could stand having Mr. Fischer to dinner one evening this week?" "Sure!" he replied, a little curiously. "If you want to keep friends with him for any reason, I don't bear him any ill-will." "I just want to talk to him," Pamela murmured, "that's all." CHAPTER XVIII There was a ripple of interest and a good deal of curiosity that afternoon, in the lounge and entrance hall of the Hotel Plaza, when a tall, grey-moustached gentleman of military bearing descended from the automobile which had brought him from the station, and handed in his name at the desk, inquiring for Mr. Fischer. "Will you send my name up--the Baron von Schwerin," he directed. The clerk, who had recognised the newcomer, took him under his personal care. "Mr. Fischer is up in his rooms, expecting you, Baron," he announced. "If you'll come this way, I'll take you up." The Baron followed his guide to the lift and along the corridor to the suite of rooms occupied by Mr. Fischer and his young friend, James Van Teyl. Mr. Fischer himself opened the door. The two men clasped hands cordially, and the clerk discreetly withdrew. "Back with us once more, Fischer," Von Schwerin exclaimed fervently. "You are wonderful. Tell me," he added, looking around, "we are to be alone here?"