And in this tiny apartment, hidden away among a group of old buildings, the very existence of which was unknown to the millions who swarmed the streets of the greatest city in the world,—here in Westover Court, a dozen paces from the roar of Broadway, was now living a young girl upon whose psychic power the only hope of the world now rested. The afternoon had turned grey and bitter; ragged flakes still fell; a pallid twilight possessed the snowy city, through which lighted trains and taxis moved in the foggy gloom. By three o’clock in the afternoon all shops were illuminated; the south windows of the Hotel Astor across the street spread a sickly light over the old buildings of Westover Court as John Recklow entered the tiled hallway, took the stairs to the left, and went directly to his apartment. He unlocked the door and let himself in and stood a moment in the entry shaking the snow from his hat and overcoat. The sitting-room lamp was unlighted but he could see a fire in the grate, and Tressa Cleves seated near, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals. He bade her good evening in a low voice; she turned her charming head and nodded, and he drew a chair to the fender and stretched out his wet shoes to the warmth. “Is Victor still out?” he inquired. She said that her husband had not yet returned. Her eyes were on the fire, Recklow’s rested on her shadowy face. “Benton got his man in Chicago,” he said. “It was not Togrul Kahn.” “Who was it?” “Only a Swami fakir who’d been preaching sedition to a little group of greasy Bengalese from Seattle.... I’ve heard from Selden, too.” She nodded listlessly and lifted her eyes. “Neither Sanang nor Togrul have appeared in Boston,” he said. “I think they’re here in New York.” The girl said nothing. After a silence: “Are you worried about your husband?” he asked abruptly. “I am always uneasy when he is absent,” she said quietly. “Of course.... But I don’t suppose he knows that.” “I suppose not.” Recklow leaned over, took a coal in the tongs and lighted a cigar. Leaning back in his armchair, he said in a musing voice: “No, I suppose your husband does not realise that you are so deeply concerned over his welfare.” The girl remained silent. “I suppose,” said Recklow softly, “he doesn’t dream you are in love with him.” Tressa Cleves did not stir a muscle. After a long silence she said in her even voice: “Do you think I am in love with my husband, Mr. Recklow?” “I think you fell in love with him the first evening you met him.” “I did.” Neither of them spoke again for some minutes. Recklow’s cigar went wrong; he rose and found another and returned to the fire, but did not light it. “It’s a rotten day, isn’t it?” he said with a shiver, and dumped a scuttle of coal on the fire. They watched the blue flames playing over the grate. Tressa said: “I could no more help falling in love with him than I could stop my heart beating.... But I did not dream that anybody knew.”