“I think it is someone I know,” she said. “Won’t you help me?” “Did you ever see her act?” asked Joan.!

He was explaining to her things about the air service. It seemed he had had experience in flying—some relation of his with whom he had spent a holiday last summer. “Don’t make me feel I’ve interfered with your work only to spoil it,” said Joan.

“I shall hope for the best,” answered Flossie. “Poor old soul, she’s had a good time. Don’t send me a present; and then I needn’t send you one—when your time comes. It’s a silly custom. Besides, I’ve nowhere to put it. Shall be in a ship for the next six months. Will let you know when we’re back.” “’Orrible murder of a woman. Shockin’ details. Speshul,” repeating it over and over again in a hoarse, expressionless monotone. Mr. Airlie had lunched the day before with a leonine old gentleman who every Sunday morning thundered forth Social Democracy to enthusiastic multitudes on Tower Hill. Joan had once listened to him and had almost been converted: he was so tremendously in earnest. She now learnt that he lived in Curzon Street, Mayfair, and filled, in private life, the perfectly legitimate calling of a company promoter in partnership with a Dutch Jew. His latest prospectus dwelt upon the profits to be derived from an amalgamation of the leading tanning industries: by means of which the price of leather could be enormously increased.