there?” and had the satisfaction to be answered by the butler, in the pomp and pride of the occasion: “No, sah. Dis entertainment is exclusively for unmarried people.” “The devil it is!” Floyd-Rosney exclaimed, after, however, cautiously releasing the receiver. His fuming humor was heightened by this _contretemps_, although a great and growing dismay was vaguely shadowed in his eyes, like a thought in the back of the mind, so to speak, too unaccustomed, too preposterous, to find ready expression. He endeavored to calm himself, although he lost no time in prosecuting his investigations. With a hasty hand he touched the electric bell for his wife’s maid and impatiently awaited the response. To his surprise it was not prompt. He stood amidst his incongruous surroundings of gowns, and jewels, and slippers, and laces, and revolving panels of mirrors, frowning heavily. How did it chance that her service should be so dilatory? He placed his forefinger on the button and held it there, and the jangling was still resounding below stairs when the door slowly opened and the maid, with an air of affronted inquiry, presented herself. Her face changed abruptly as she perceived the master of the house, albeit it was like pulling a cloak of bland superserviceableness over her lineaments of impudent protest. “What do you mean by being so slow to answer this bell?” he thundered, his angry eyes contemptuously regarding her. “I came as soon as I heard it, sir. I think there must be something wrong with the annunciator.” “What do you mean by leaving your mistress’s gowns lying around, and her room in this disorder?” The girl’s beady eyes traveled in bewilderment from one article to another of the turmoil of toilet accessories scattered about the apartment. She had looked for a moment as if she would fire up at the phrase “your mistress,” and she said with a slight emphasis on the title: “I didn’t know that Mrs. Floyd-Rosney had changed.” “Where has she gone?” Once more a dull and genuine bewilderment on the maid’s face. “I am sure, sir, I don’t know--she didn’t ring for me.” “I reckon you didn’t answer the bell,” Floyd-Rosney sneered. “She couldn’t wait forever. She hasn’t my patience.” The girl glowered at his back, but, mindful of the mirrors, forbore the grimace so grateful in moments of disaffection to her type. Floyd-Rosney was speaking through the house telephone. “Have the limousine at the door--yes--immediately.” The ready response of the chauffeur came over the wire. “Now see what gown she wore, so that I can guess where to send for her. A nice business this is--that Mrs. Floyd-Rosney can’t get hold of her maid to change her dress and leave a message. I don’t doubt there is a note somewhere, if I could find it.” He affected to toss over the _mélange_ on the dressing-table. He even looked at the evening paper lying on the foot-rest, which she had read while her hair was being dressed for the opera.