Calm curiosity, faintly amused, possessed her—left him possessed of her hand presently.

"Are you attempting to be sentimental?" she asked.

Very leisurely she began once more to disengage her hand—loosening the fingers one by one—and watching him all the while with a slight smile edging her lips. Then, as his clasp tightened:

"Please," she said, "may I not have my freedom?"

"Do you want it?"

"You never did this before—touched me—unnecessarily."

As he made no answer, she fell silent, her dark eyes vaguely interrogative as though questioning herself as well as him concerning this unaccustomed contact.

His head had been bent a little. Now he lifted it. Neither was smiling.

Suddenly she rose to her feet and stood with her head partly averted. He rose, too. Neither spoke. But after a moment she turned and looked straight at him, the virginal curiosity clear in her eyes. And he took her into his arms.

Her arms had fallen to her side. She endured his lips gravely, then turned her head and looked at the roses beside her.

"I was afraid," she said, "that we would do this. Now let me go, Jim."

He released her in silence. She walked slowly to the mantel and set one slim foot on the fender.

Without looking around at him she said: "Does this spoil me for you, Jim?"

"You darling——"

"Tell me frankly. Does it?"

"What on earth do you mean, Palla! Does it spoil me for you?"

"I've been thinking.... No, it doesn't. But I wondered about you."

He came over to where she stood.

"Dear," he said unsteadily, "don't you know I'm very desperately in love with you?"

At that she turned her enchanting little head toward him.

"If you are," she said, "there need be nothing desperate about it."

"Do you mean you care enough to marry me, you darling?" he asked impetuously. "Will you, Palla?"

"Why, no," she said candidly. "I didn't mean that. I meant that I care for you quite as much as you care for me. So you need not be desperate. But I really don't think we are in love—I mean sufficiently—for anything serious."

"Why don't you think so!" he demanded impatiently.

"Do you wish me to be quite frank?"

"Of course!"

"Very well." She lifted her head and let her clear eyes rest on his. "I like you," she said. "I even like—what we did. I like you far better than any man I ever knew. But I do not care for you enough to give up my freedom of mind and of conduct for your asking. I do not care enough for you to subscribe to your religion and your laws. And that's the tragic truth."

"But what on earth has all that to do with it? I haven't asked you to believe as I believe or to subscribe to any law——"

Her enchanting laughter filled the room: "Yes, you have! You asked me to marry you, didn't you?"

"Of course!"

"Well, I can't, Jim, because I don't believe in the law of marriage, civil or religious. If I loved you I'd live with you unmarried. But I'm afraid to try it. And so are you. Which proves that I'm not really in love with you, or you with me——"

The door bell rang.

"But I do care for you," she whispered, bending swiftly toward him. Her lips rested lightly on his a moment, then she turned and walked out into the centre of the room.

The maid announced: "Mr. Estridge!"



CHAPTER VIII

Young Shotwell, still too incredulous to be either hurt or angry, stood watching Palla welcoming her guests, who arrived within a few minutes of each other.

First came Estridge,—handsome, athletic, standing over six feet, and already possessed of that winning and reassuring manner which means success for a physician.

"It's nice of you to ask me, Palla," he said. "And is Miss Westgard really coming to-night?"

"But here she is now!" exclaimed Palla, as the maid announced her. "—Ilse! You astonishing girl! How long have you been in New York?"

And Shotwell beheld the six-foot goddess for the first time—gazed with pleasurable awe upon this young super-creature with the sea-blue eyes and golden hair and a skin of roses and cream.

"Fancy, Palla!" she said, "I came immediately back from Stockholm, but you had sailed on the Elsinore, and I was obliged to wait!—Oh!—" catching sight of Estridge as he advanced—"I am so very happy to see you again!"—giving him her big, exquisitely sculptured hand. "Except for Mr. Brisson, we are quite complete in our little company of death!" She laughed her healthy, undisturbed defiance of that human enemy as she named him, gazed rapturously at Palla, acknowledged Shotwell's presentation in her hearty, engaging way, then turned laughingly to Estridge:

"The world whirls like a wheel in a squirrel cage which we all tread:—only to find ourselves together after travelling many, many miles at top speed!... Are you well, John Estridge?"

"Fairly," he laughed, "but nobody except the immortals could ever be as well as you, Ilse Westgard!"

She laughed in sheer exuberance of her own physical vigour: "Only that old and toothless nemesis of Loki can slay me, John Estridge!" And, to Palla: "I had some slight trouble in Stockholm. Fancy!—a little shrimp of a man approached me on the street one evening when there chanced to be nobody near.

"And the first I knew he was mouthing and grinning and saying to me in Russian: 'I know you, hired mercenary of the aristocrats!—I know you!—big white battle horse that carried the bloody war-god!'

"I was too astonished, my dear; I merely gazed upon this small and agitated toad, who continued to run alongside and grimace and pull funny faces at me. He appeared to be furious, and he said some very vile things to me.

"I was disgusted and walked faster, and he had to run. And all the while he was squealing at me: 'I know you! You keep out of America, do you hear? If you sail on that steamer, we follow you and kill you! You hear it what I say? We kill! Kill! Kill!——'"

She threw up her superb head and laughed:

"Can you see him—this insect—Palla!—so small and hairy, with crazy eyes like little sparks among the furry whiskers!—and running, running at heel, underfoot, one side and then the other, and squealing 'Kill! Kill? Kill'——"

She had made them see the picture and they all laughed.

"But all the same," she added, turning to Estridge, "from that evening I became conscious that people were watching me.

"It was the same in Copenhagen and in Christiania—always I felt that somebody was watching me."

"Did you have any trouble?" asked Estridge.

"Well—there seemed to be so many unaccountable delays, obstacles in securing proper papers, trouble about luggage and steamer accommodations—petty annoyances," she added. "And also I am sure that letters to me were opened, and others which I should have received never arrived."

"You believe it was due to the Reds?" asked Palla. "Have they emissaries in Scandinavia?"

"My dear, their agents and spies swarm everywhere over the world!" said Ilse calmly.

"Not here," remarked Shotwell, smiling.

"Oh," rejoined Ilse quickly, "I ask your pardon, but America, also, is badly infested by these people. As their Black Plague spreads out over the entire world, so spread out the Bolsheviki to infect all with the red sickness that slays whole nations!"

"We have a few local Reds," he said, unconvinced, "but I had scarcely supposed——"

The bell rang: Miss Lanois and Mr. Tchernov were announced, greeted warmly by Palla, and presented.

Both spoke the beautiful English of educated Russians; Vanya Tchernov, a wonderfully handsome youth, saluted Palla's hand in Continental fashion, and met the men with engaging formality.

Shotwell found himself seated beside Marya Lanois, a lithe, warm, golden creature with greenish golden eyes that slanted, and the strawberry complexion that goes with reddish hair.

"You are happy," she said, "with all your streets full of bright flags and your victorious soldiers arriving home by every troopship. Ah!—but Russia is the most unhappy of all countries to-day, Mr. Shotwell."

"It's terribly sad," he said sympathetically. "We Americans don't seem to know whether to send an army to help you, or merely to stand aside and let Russia find herself."

"You should send troops!" she said. "Is it not so, Ilse?"

"Sane people should unite," replied the girl, her beautiful face becoming serious. "It will arrive at that the world over—the sane against the insane."

"And it is only the bourgeoisie that is sane," said Vanya Tchernov, in his beautifully modulated voice. "The extremes are both abnormal—aristocrats and Bolsheviki alike."

"We social revolutionists," said Marya Lanois, "were called extremists yesterday and are called reactionists to-day. But we are the world's balance. This war was fought for our ideals; your American soldiers marched for them: the hun failed because of them."

"And there remains only one more war," said Ilse Westgard,—"the war against those outlaws we call Capital and Labour—two names for two robbers that have disturbed the world's peace long enough!"

"Two tyrants," said Marya, "who trample us to war upon each other—who outrage us, crush us, cripple us with their ferocious feuds. What are the Bolsheviki? 'Those who want more.' Then the name belongs as well to the capitalists. They, also, are Bolsheviki—'men who always want more!' And these are the two quarrelling Bolsheviki giants who trample us—Lord Labour, Lord Capital—the devil of envy against the devil of greed!—war to the death! And, to the survivor, the bones!"

Shotwell, a little astonished to hear from the red lips of this warm young creature the bitter cynicisms of the proletariat, asked her to define more clearly where the Bolsheviki stood, and for what they stood.

"Why," she said, lying back on the sofa and adjusting her lithe body to a more luxurious position among the pillows, "it amounts to this, Mr. Shotwell, that a new doctrine is promulgated in the world—the cult of the under-dog.

"And in all dog-fights, if the under-dog ever gets on top, then he, also, will try to kill the ci-devant who has now become the under-dog." And she laughed at him out of her green eyes that slanted so enchantingly.

"You mean that there always will be an under-dog in the battle between capital and labour?"

"Surely. Their snarling, biting, and endless battle is a nuisance." She smiled again: "We should knock them both on the head."

"You know," explained Ilse, "that when we speak of the two outlaws as Capital and Labour, we don't mean legitimate capital and genuine labour."

"They never fight," added Tchernov, smiling, "because they are one and the same."

"Of course," remarked Marya, "even the united suffer occasionally from internal pains."

"The remedy," added Vanya, "is to consult a physician. That is—arbitration."

Ilse said: "Force is good! But one uses it legitimately only against rabid things." She turned affectionately to Palla and took her hands: "Your wonderful Law of Love solves all phenomena except insanity. With rabies it can not deal. Only force remains to solve that problem."

"And yet," said Palla, "so much insanity can be controlled by kind treatment."

Estridge agreed, but remarked that strait-jackets and padded cells would always be necessary in the world.

"As for the Bolsheviki," said Marya, turning her warm young face to Shotwell with a lissome movement of the shoulders, almost caressing, "in the beginning we social revolutionists agreed with them and believed in them. Why not? Kerensky was an incapable dreamer—so sensitive that if you spoke rudely to him he shrank away wounded to the soul.

"That is not a leader! And the Cadets were plotting, and the Cossacks loomed like a tempest on the horizon. And then came Korniloff! And the end."

"The peace of Brest," explained Vanya, in his gentle voice, "awoke us to what the Red Soviets stood for. We saw Christ crucified again. And understood."

Marya sat up straight on the sofa, running her dazzling white fingers over her hair—hair that seemed tiger-red, and very vaguely scented.

"For thirty pieces of silver," she said, "Judas sold the world. What Lenine and Trotsky sold was paid for in yellow metal, and there were more pieces."

Ilse said: "Babushka is dying of it. That is enough for me."

Vanya replied: "Where the source is infected, drinkers die at the river's mouth. Little Marie Spiridonova perished. Countess Panina succumbed. Alexandria Kolontar will die from its poison. And, as these died, so shall Ivan and Vera die also, unless that polluted source be cleansed."

Marya rested her tawny young head on the cushions again and smiled at Shotwell:

"It's confusing even to Russians," she said, "—like a crazy Bakst spectacle at the Marinsky. I wonder what you must think of us."

But on her expressive mouth the word "us" might almost have meant "me," and he paid her the easy compliment which came naturally to him, while she looked at him out of lazy and very lovely eyes as green as beryls.

"Tiche," she murmured, smiling, "ce n'est pas moi l'etat, monsieur." And laughed while her indolent glance slanted sideways on Vanya, and lingered there as though in leisurely but amiable appraisal.

The girl was evidently very young, but there seemed to be an indefinable something about her that hinted of experience beyond her years.

Palla had been looking at her—from Shotwell to her—and Marya's sixth sense was already aware of it and asking why.

For between two females of the human species the constant occult interplay is like steady lighting. With invisible antennae they touch one another incessantly, delicately exploring inside that grosser aura which is all that the male perceives.

And finally Marya looked back at Palla.

"May Mr. Tchernov play for us?" asked Palla, smiling, as though some vague authority in the matter were vested in this young girl with the tiger-hair.

Her eyes closed indolently, and opened again as though digesting the subtlety: then, disdainfully accepting the assumption: "Oh, Vanya," she called out carelessly, "play a little for us."

The handsome youth bowed in his absent, courteous way. There was about him a simplicity entirely winning as he seated himself at the piano.

But his playing revealed a maturity and nobility of mind scarcely expected of such gentleness and youth.

Never had Palla heard Beethoven until that moment.

He did not drift. There was no caprice to offend when he turned with courtly logic from one great master to another.

Only when Estridge asked for something "typically Russian" did the charming dignity of the sequence break. Vanya laughed and looked at Marya Lanois:

"That means you must sing," he said.

She sang, resting where she was among the silken cushions;—the song, one of those epics of ancient Moscow, lauded Ivan IV. and the taking of Kazan.

The music was bizarre; the girl's voice bewitching; and though the song was of the Beliny, it had been made into brief couplets, and it ended very quickly.

Laughing at the applause, she sang a song of the Skomorokhi; then a cradle song, infinitely tender and strange, built upon the Chinese scale; and another—a Cossack song—built, also, upon the pentatonic scale.

Discussions intruded then; the diversion ended the music.

Palla presently rose, spoke to Vanya and Estridge, and came over to where Jim Shotwell sat beside Marya.

Interrupted, they both looked up, and Jim rose as Estridge also presented himself to Marya.

Palla said: "If you will take me out, Jim, we can show everybody the way." And to Marya: "Just a little supper, you know—but the dining room is below."

* * * * *

Her pretty drawing-room was only partly furnished—an expensive but genuine set of old Aubusson being her limit for the time.

But beyond, in the rear, the little glass doors opened on a charming dining-room, the old Georgian mahogany of which was faded to a golden hue. Curtains, too, were golden shot with palest mauve; and two Imperial Chinese panels of ancient silk, miraculously embroidered and set with rainbow Ho-ho birds, were the only hangings on the walls. And they seemed to illuminate the room like sunshine.

Shotwell, who knew nothing about such things but envisaged them with reverence, seated Palla and presently took his place beside her.

His neighbour on his left was Marya, again—an arrangement which Palla might have altered had it occurred to her upstairs.

Estridge, very animated, and apparently happy, recalled to Palla their last dinner together, and their dance.

Palla laughed: "You said I drank too much champagne, John Estridge! Do you remember?"

"You bet I do. You had a cunning little bunn, Palla——"

"I did not! I merely asked you and Mr. Brisson what it felt like to be intoxicated."

"You did your best to be a sport," he insisted, "but you almost passed away over your first cigarette!"

"Darling!" cried Ilse, "don't let them tease you!"

Palla, rather pink, laughingly denied any aspirations toward sportdom; and she presently ventured a glance at Shotwell, to see how he took all this.

But already Marya had engaged him in half smiling, low-voiced conversation; and Palla looked at her golden-green eyes and warm, rich colouring, cooled by a skin of snow. Tiger-golden, the rousse ensemble; the supple movement of limb and body fascinated her; but most of all the lovely, slanting eyes with their glint of beryl amid melting gold.

Estridge spoke to Marya; as the girl turned slightly, Palla said to Shotwell:

"Do you find them interesting—my guests?"

He turned instantly to her, but it seemed to her as though there were a slight haze in his eyes—a fixedness—which cleared, however, as he spoke.

"They are delightful—all of them," he said. "Your blond goddess yonder is rather overpowering, but beautiful to gaze upon."

"And Vanya?"

"Charming; astonishing."

"Lovable," she said.

"He seems so."

"And—Marya?"

"Rather bewildering," he replied. "Fascinating, I should say. Is she very learned?"

"I don't know."

"She's been in the universities."

"Yes.... I don't know how learned she is."

"She is very young," he remarked.

It was on the tip of Palla's tongue to say something; and she remained silent—lest this man misinterpret her motive—and, perhaps, lest her own conscience misinterpret it, too.

Ilse said it to Estridge, however, frankly insouciant:

"You know Marya and Vanya are married—that is, they live together."

And Shotwell heard her.

"Is that true?" he said in a low voice to Palla.

"Why, yes."

He remained silent so long that she added: "The tie is not looser than the old-fashioned one. More rigid, perhaps, because they are on their honour."

"And if they tire of each other?"

"You, also, have divorce," said the girl, smiling.

"Do you?"

"It is beastly to live together where love does not exist. People who believe as they do—as I do—merely separate."

"And contract another alliance if they wish?"

"Do not your divorcees remarry if they wish?"

"What becomes of the children?" he demanded sullenly.

"What becomes of them when your courts divorce their parents?"

"I see. It's all a parody on lawful regularity."

"I'm sorry you speak of it that way——"

The girl's face flushed and she extended her hand toward her wine glass.

"I didn't intend to hurt you, Palla," he said.

She drew a quick breath, looked up, smiled: "You didn't mean to," she said. Then into her brown eyes came the delicious glimmer:

"May I whisper to you, Jim? Is it too rude?"

He inclined his head and felt the thrill of her breath:

"Shall we drink one glass together—to each other alone?"

"Yes."

"To a dear comradeship, and close!... And not too desperate!" she added, as her glance flashed into hidden laughter.

They drank, not daring to look toward each other. And Palla's careless gaze, slowly sweeping the circle, finally met Marya's—as she knew it must. Both smiled, touching each other at once with invisible antennae—always searching, exploring under the glimmering aura what no male ever discovered or comprehended.

There was, in the living room above, a little more music—a song or two before the guests departed.

Marya, a little apart, turned to Shotwell:

"You find our Russian folk-song amusing?"

"Wonderful!"

"If, by any chance, you should remember that I am at home on Thursdays, there is a song I think that might interest you." She let her eyes rest on him with a curious stillness in their depths:

"The song is called Lada," she said in a voice so low that he just heard her. The next moment she was taking leave of Palla; kissed her. Vanya enveloped her in her wrap.

* * * * *

Estridge called up a taxi; and presently went away with Ilse.

Very slowly Palla came back to the centre of the room, where Shotwell stood. The scent of flowers was in his nostrils, his throat; the girl herself seemed saturated with their perfume as he took her into his arms.

"So you didn't like my friends, Jim," she ventured.

"Yes, I did."

"I was afraid they might have shocked you."

He said drily: "It isn't a case of being shocked. It's more like being bored."

"Oh. My friends bore you?"

"Their morals do.... Is Ilse that sort, too?"

"That sort?"

"You know what I mean."

"I suppose she is."

"Not inclined to bother herself with the formalities of marriage?"

"I suppose not."

"It's a mischievous, ridiculous, immoral business!" he said hotly. "Why, to look at you—at Ilse—at Miss Lanois——"

"We don't look like very immoral people, do we?" she said, laughingly.

The light raillery in her laughter angered him, and he released her and began to pace the room nervously.

"See here, Palla," he said roughly, "suppose I accept you at your own valuation!"

"I value myself very highly, Jim."

"So do I. That's why I ask you to marry me."

"And I tell you I don't believe in marriage," she rejoined coolly.

"A magistrate can marry us——"

"It makes no difference. A ceremony, civil or religious, is entirely out of the question."

"You mean," he said, incensed, "that you refuse to be married by any law at all?"

"My own law is sufficient."

"Well—well, then," he stammered; "—what—what sort of procedure——"

"None."

"You're crazy," he said; "you wouldn't do that!"

"If I were in love with you I'd not be afraid."

Her calm candour infuriated him:

"Do you imagine that you and I could ever get away with a situation like that!" he blazed out.

"Why do you become so irritable and excited, Jim? We're not going to try——"

"Damnation! I should think not!" he retorted, so violently that her mouth quivered. But she kept her head averted until the swift emotion was under control.

Then she said in a low voice: "If you really think me immoral, Jim, I can understand your manner toward me. Otherwise——"

"Palla, dear! Forgive me! I'm just worried sick——"

"You funny boy," she said with her quick, frank smile, "I didn't mean to worry you. Listen! It's all quite simple. I care for you very much indeed. I don't mind your—caressing—me—sometimes. But I'm not in love. I just care a lot for you.... But not nearly enough to love you."

"Palla, you're hopeless!"

"Why? Because I am so respectful toward love? Of course I am. A girl who believes as I do can't afford to make a mistake."

"Exactly," he said eagerly, "but under the law, if a mistake is made every woman has her remedy——"

"Her remedy! What do you mean? You can't pass one of those roses through the flame of that fire and still have your rose, can you?"

He was silent.

"And that's what happens under your laws, as well as outside of them. No! I don't love you. Under your law I'd be afraid to marry you. Under mine I'm deathly afraid.... Because—I know—that where love is there can be no fear."

"Is that your answer, Palla?"

"Yes, Jim."



CHAPTER IX

He had called her up the following morning from the office, and had told her that he thought he had better not see her for a while.

And she had answered with soft concern that he must do what he thought best without considering her.

What other answer he expected is uncertain; but her gentle acquiescence in his decision irritated him and he ended the conversation in a tone of boyish resentment.

To occupy his mind there was, that day, not only the usual office routine, but some extra business most annoying to Sharrow. For Angelo Puma had turned up again, as shiny and bland as ever, flashing his superb smile over clerk and stenographer impartially.

So Sharrow shunted him to Mr. Brooke, that sort of property being his specialty; and Brooke called in Shotwell.

"Go up town with that preposterous wop and settle this business one way or another, once for all," he whispered. "A crook named Skidder owns the property; but we can't do anything with him. The office is heartily sick of both Skidder and Puma; and Sharrow desires to be rid of them."

Then, very cordially, he introduced Puma to young Shotwell; and they took Puma's handsome car and went up town to see what could be done with the slippery owner of the property in question, who was now permanently located in New York.

On the way, Puma, smelling oppressively aromatic and looking conspicuously glossy as to hair, hat, and boots, also became effusively voluble. For he had instantly recognised Shotwell as the young man with whom that disturbingly pretty girl had been in consultation in Sharrow's offices; and his mind was now occupied with a new possibility as well as with the property which he so persistently desired to acquire.

"With me," he said in his animated, exotic way, and all creased with smiles, "my cinema business is not business alone! No! It is Art! It is the art hunger that ever urges me onward, not the desire for commercial gain. For me, beauty is ever first; the box-office last! You understand, Mr. Shotwell? With me, art is supreme! Yes. And afterward my crust of bread."

"Well, then," said Jim, "I can't see why you don't pay this man Skidder what he asks for the property."

"I tell you why. I make it clear to you. For argument—Skidder he has ever the air of one who does not care to sell. It is an attitude! I know! But he has that air. Well! I say to him, 'Mr. Skidder, I offer you—we say for argument, one dollar! Yes?' Well, he do not say yes or no. He do not say, 'I take a dollar and also one quarter. Or a dollar and a half. Or two dollars.' No. He squint and answer: 'I am not anxious to sell!' My God! What can one say? What can one do?"

"Perhaps," suggested Jim, "he really doesn't want to sell."

"Ah! That is not so. No. He is sly, Mr. Skidder, like there never has been in my experience a man more sly. What is it he desires? I ask. I do not know. But all the time he inquire about my business if it pays, and is there much money in it. Also, I hear, by channels, that he makes everywhere inquiries if the film business shall pay."

"Maybe he wants to try it himself."

"Also, that has occurred to me. But to him I say nothing. No. He is too sly. Me, I am all art and all heart. Me, I am frank like there never was a man in my business! But Skidder, he squint at me. My God, those eye! And I do not know what is in his thought."

"Well, Mr. Puma, what do you wish me to do? As I understand it, you are our client, and if I buy for you this Skidder property I shall look to you, of course, for my commission. Is that what you understand?"

"My God! Why should he not pay that commission if you are sufficiently obliging to buy from him his property?"

"It isn't done that way," explained Jim drily.

"You suppose you can buy me this property? Yes?"

"I don't know. Of course, I can buy anything for you if you'll pay enough."

"My God! I do not enjoy commercial business. No. I enjoy art. I enjoy qualities of the heart. I——" He looked at Jim out of his magnificent black eyes, touched his full lips with a perfumed handkerchief.

"Yes, sir," he said, flashing a brilliant smile, "I am all heart. But my heart is for art alone! I dedicate it to the film, to the moving picture, to beauty! It is my constant preoccupation. It is my only thought. Art, beauty, the picture, the world made happier, better, for the beauty which I offer in my pictures. It is my only thought. It is my life."

Jim politely suppressed a yawn and said that a life devoted purely to art was a laudable sacrifice.

"As example!" explained Puma, all animation and childlike frankness; "I pay my artists what they ask. What is money when it is a question of art? I must have quality; I must have beauty—" He shrugged: "I must pay. Yes?"

"One usually pays for pulchritude."

"Ah! As example! I watch always on the streets as I pass by. I see a face. It has beauty. It has quality. I follow. I speak. I am frank like there never was a man. I say, 'Mademoiselle, you shall not be offended. No. Art has no frontiers. It is my art, not I who address you. I am Angelo Puma. The Ultra-Film Company is mine. In you I perceive possibilities. This is my card. If it interests you to have a test, come! Who knows? It may be your life's destiny. The projection room should tell. Adieu!'"

"Is that the way you pick stars?" asked Jim curiously.

"Stars? Bah! I care nothing for stars. No. I should go bankrupt. Why? Beauty alone is my star. Upon it I drape the mantle of Art!"

He kissed his fat finger-tips and gazed triumphantly at Jim.

"You see? Out of the crowd of passersby I pick the perfect and unconscious rosebud. In my temple it opens into perfect bloom. And Art is born! And I am content. You comprehend?"

Jim said that he thought he did.

"As example," exclaimed Puma vivaciously, "while in conversation once with Mr. Sharrow, I beheld entering your office a young lady in mourning. Hah! Instantly I was all art!" Again he kissed his gloved fingers. "A face for a picture! A form for the screen! I perceive. I am convinced.... You recall the event, perhaps, Mr. Shotwell?"

"No."

"A young lady in mourning, seated beside your desk? I believe she was buying from you a house."

"Oh."

"Her name—Miss Dumont—I believe."

Jim glanced at him. "Miss Dumont is not likely to do anything of that sort," he said.

"And why?"

"You mean go into the movies?" He laughed. "She wouldn't bother."

"But—my God! It is Art! What you call movies, and, within, this young lady may hide genius. And genius belongs to Art. And Art belongs to the world!"

The unthinkable idea of Palla on the screen was peculiarly distasteful to him.

"Miss Dumont has no inclination for the movies," he said.

"Perhaps, Mr. Shotwell," purred Puma, "if your amiable influence could induce the young lady to have a test made——"

"There isn't a chance of it," said Jim bluntly. Their limousine stopped just then. They got out before one of those new apartment houses on the upper West Side.

* * * * *

Mr. Skidder, it appeared, was in and would receive them.

A negro servant opened the door and ushered them into a parlour where Mr. Elmer Skidder, sprawling over the debris of breakfast, laid aside newspaper and coffee cup and got up to receive them in bath robe and slippers.

And when they were all seated: "Now, Mr. Skidder," said Jim, with his engaging frankness, "the simplest way is the quickest. My client, Mr. Puma, wants to purchase your property; and he is, I understand, prepared to pay considerably more than it is worth. We all have a very fair idea of its actual value. Our appraiser, yours, and other appraisers from other companies and corporations seem, for a wonder, to agree in their appraisal of this particular property.

"Now, how much more than it is worth do you expect us to offer you?"

Skidder had never before been dealt with in just this way. He squinted at Jim, trying to appraise him. But within his business experience in a country town no similar young man had he encountered.

"Well," he said, "I ain't asking you to buy, am I?"

"We understand that," rejoined Jim, good humouredly; "we are asking you to sell."

"You seem to want it pretty bad."

"We do," said the young fellow, laughing.

"All right. Make your offer."

Jim named the sum.

"No, sir!" snapped Skidder, picking up his newspaper.

"Then," remarked Jim, looking: frankly at Puma, "that definitely lets us out." And, to Skidder: "Many thanks for permitting us to interrupt your breakfast. No need to bother you again, Mr. Skidder." And he offered his hand in smiling finality.

"Look here," said Skidder, "the property is worth all I ask."

"If it's worth that to you," said Jim pleasantly, "you should keep it." And he turned away toward the door, wondering why Puma did not follow.

"Are you two gentlemen in a rush?" demanded Skidder.

"I have other business, of course," said Jim.

"Sit down. Hell! Will you have a drink?"

When they were again seated, Skidder squinted sideways at Angelo Puma.

"Want a partner?" he inquired.

"Please?" replied Puma, as though mystified.

"Want more capital to put into your fillum concern?" demanded Skidder.

Puma, innocently perplexed, asked mutely for an explanation out of his magnificent dark eyes.

"I got money," asserted Skidder.

Puma's dazzling smile congratulated him upon the accumulation of a fabulous fortune.

"I had you looked up," continued Skidder. "It listened good. And—I got money, too. And I got that property in my vest pocket. See. And there's a certain busted fillum corporation can be bought for a postage stamp—all 'ncorporated 'n everything. You get me?"

No; Mr. Puma, who was all art and heart, could not comprehend what Mr. Skidder was driving at.

"This here busted fillum company is called the Super-Picture Fillums," said Skidder. "What's the matter with you and me buying it? Don't you ever do a little tradin'?"

Jim rose, utterly disgusted, but immensely amused at himself, and realising, now, how entirely right Sharrow had been in desiring to be rid of this man Skidder, and of Puma and the property in question.

He said, still smiling, but rather grimly: "I see, now, that this is no place for a broker who lives by his commissions." And he bade them adieu with perfect good humour.

"Have a seegar?" inquired Skidder blandly.

"Why do you go, sir?" asked Puma innocently. No doubt, being all heart and art, he did not comprehend that brokers can not exist on cigars alone.

* * * * *

His commission had gone glimmering. Sharrow, evidently foreseeing something of that sort, had sent him out with Puma to meet Skidder and rid the office of the dubious affair.

This Jim understood, and yet he was not particularly pleased to be exploited by this bland pair who had come suddenly to an understanding under his very nose—the understanding of two petty, dickering, crossroad traders, which coolly excluded any possibility both of his services and of his commission.

"No; only a kike lawyer is required now," he said to himself, as he crossed the street and entered Central Park. "I've been properly trimmed by a perfumed wop and a squinting yap," he thought with intense amusement. "But we're well clear of them for good."

* * * * *

The park was wintry and unattractive. Few pedestrians were abroad, but motors sparkled along distant drives in the sunshine.

Presently his way ran parallel to one of these drives. And he had been walking only a little while when a limousine veered in, slowing down abreast of him, and he saw a white-gloved hand tapping the pane.

He felt himself turning red as he went up, hat in hand, to open the door and speak to the girl inside.

"What on earth are you doing?" she demanded, laughingly, "—walking all by your wild lone in the park on a wintry day!"

He explained. She made room for him and he got in.

"We rather hoped you'd be at the opera last night," she said, but without any reproach in her voice.

"I meant to go, Elorn—but something came up to prevent it," he added, flushing again. "Were they singing anything new?"

"Yes, but you missed nothing," she reassured him lightly. "Where on earth have you kept yourself these last weeks? One sees you no more among the haunts of men."

He said, in the deplorable argot of the hour: "Oh, I'm off all that social stuff."

"But I'm not social stuff, am I?"

"No. I've meant to call you up. Something always seems to happen—I don't know, Elorn, but ever since I came back from France I haven't been up to seeing people."

She glanced at him curiously.

He sat gazing out of the window, where there was nothing to see except leafless trees and faded grass and starlings and dingy sparrows.

The girl was more worth his attention—one of those New York examples, built on lean, rangy, thoroughbred lines—long limbed, small of hand and foot and head, with cinder-blond hair, greyish eyes, a sweet but too generous mouth, and several noticeable freckles.

Minute grooming and a sure taste gave her that ultra-smart appearance which does everything for a type that is less attractive in a dinner gown, and still less in negligee. And which, after marriage, usually lets a straight strand of hair sprawl across one ear.

But now, coiffeur, milliner, modiste, and her own maiden cleverness kept her immaculate—the true Gotham model found nowhere else.

They chatted of parties already past, where he had failed to materialise, and of parties to come, where she hoped he would appear. And he said he would.

They chatted about their friends and the gossip concerning them.

Traffic on Fifth Avenue was rather worse than usual. The competent police did their best, but motors and omnibuses, packed solidly, moved only by short spurts before being checked again.

"It's after one o'clock," she said, glancing at her tiny platinum wrist-watch. "Here's Delmonico's, Jim. Shall we lunch together?"

He experienced a second's odd hesitation, then: "Certainly," he said. And she signalled the chauffeur.

The place was beginning to be crowded, but there was a table on the Fifth Avenue side.

As they crossed the crowded room toward it, women looked up at Elorn Sharrow, instantly aware that they saw perfection in hat, gown and fur, and a face and figure not to be mistaken for any imitation of the Gotham type.

She wore silver fox—just a stole and muff. Every feminine eye realised their worth.

When they were seated:

"I want," she said gaily, "some consomme and a salad. You, of course, require the usual nourishment of the carnivora."

But it seemed not. However, he ordered a high-ball, feeling curiously depressed. Then he addressed himself to making the hour agreeable, conscious, probably, that reparation was overdue.

Friends from youthful dancing-class days, these two had plenty to gossip about; and gradually he found himself drifting back into the lively, refreshing, piquant intimacy of yesterday. And realised that it was very welcome.

For, about this girl, always a clean breeze seemed to be blowing; and the atmosphere invariably braced him up.

And she was always responsive, whether or not agreeing with his views; and he was usually conscious of being at his best with her. Which means much to any man.

So she dissected her pear-salad, and he enjoyed his whitebait, and they chatted away on the old footing, quite oblivious of people around them.

Elorn was having a very happy time of it. People thought her captivating now—freckles, mouth and all—and every man there envied the fortunate young fellow who was receiving such undivided attention from a girl like this.

But whether in Elorn's heart there really existed all the gaiety that laughed at him out of her grey eyes, is a question. Because it seemed to her that, at moments, a recurrent shadow fell across his face. And there were, now and then, seconds suggesting preoccupation on his part, when it seemed to her that his gaze grew remote and his smile a trifle absent-minded.

* * * * *

She was drawing on her gloves; he had scribbled his signature across the back of the check. Then, as he lifted his head to look for their waiter, he found himself staring into the brown eyes of Palla Dumont.

The heavy flush burnt his face—burnt into it, so it seemed to him.

She was only two tables distant. When he bowed, her smile was the slightest; her nod coolly self-possessed. She was wearing orchids. There seemed to be a girl with her whom he did not know.

Why the sudden encounter should have upset him so—why the quiet glance Elorn bestowed upon Palla should have made him more uncomfortable still, he could not understand.

He lighted a cigarette.

"A wonderfully pretty girl," said Elorn serenely. "I mean the girl you bowed to."

"Yes, she is very charming."

"Who is she, Jim?"

"I met her on the steamer coming back. She is a Miss Dumont."

Elorn's smile was a careless dismissal of further interest. But in her heart perplexity and curiosity contended with concern. For she had seen Jim's face. And had wondered.

He laid away his half-consumed cigarette. She was quite ready to go. She rose, and he laid the stole around her shoulders. She picked up her muff.

As she passed through the narrow aisle, she permitted herself a casual side-glance at this girl in black; and Palla looked up at her, kept her quietly in range of her brown eyes to the limit of breeding, then her glance dropped as Jim passed; and he heard her speaking serenely to the girl beside her.

At the revolving doors, Elorn said: "Shall I drop you at the office, Jim?"

"Thanks—if you don't mind."

In the car he talked continually, not very entertainingly, but there was more vivacity about him than there had been.

"Are you doing anything to-night?" he inquired.

She was, of course. Yet, she felt oddly relieved that he had asked her.... But the memory of the strange expression in his face persisted in her mind.

Who was this girl with whom he had crossed the ocean? And why should he lose his self-possession on unexpectedly encountering her?

Had there been anything about Palla—the faintest hint of inferiority of any sort—Elorn Sharrow could have dismissed the episode with proud, if troubled, philosophy. For many among her girl friends had cub brothers. And the girl had learned that men are men—sometimes even the nicest—although she could not understand it.

But this brown-eyed girl in black was evidently her own sort—Jim's sort. And that preoccupied her; and she lent only an inattentive ear to the animated monologue of the man beside her.

Before the offices of Sharrow & Co. her car stopped.

"I'm sorry, Jim," she said, "that I'm so busy this week. But we ought to meet at many places, unless you continue to play the recluse. Don't you really go anywhere any more?"

"No. But I'm going," he said bluntly.

"Please do. And call me up sometimes. Take a sporting chance whenever you're free. We ought to get in an hour together now and then. You're coming to my dance of course, are you not?"

"Of course I am."

The girl smiled in her sweet, generous way and gave him her hand again.

And he went into the office feeling rather miserable and beginning to realise why.

For in spite of what he had said to Palla about the wisdom of absenting himself, the mere sight of her had instantly set him afire.

And now he wanted to see her—needed to see her. A day was too long to pass without seeing her. An evening without her—and another—and others, appalled him.

And all the afternoon he thought of her, his mind scarcely on his business at all.

* * * * *

His parents were dining at home. He was very gay that evening—very amusing in describing his misadventures with Messrs. Puma and Skidder. But his mother appeared to be more interested in the description of his encounter with Elorn.

"She's such a dear," she said. "If you go to the Speedwells' dinner on Thursday you'll see her again. You haven't declined, I hope; have you, Jim?"

It appeared that he had.

"If you drop out of things this way nobody will bother to ask you anywhere after a while. Don't you know that, dear?" she said. "This town forgets overnight."

"I suppose so, mother. I'll keep up."

His father remarked that it was part of his business to know the sort of people who bought houses.

Jim agreed with him. "I'll surely kick in again," he promised cheerfully.... "I think I'll go to the club this evening."

His mother smiled. It was a healthy sign. Also, thank goodness, there were no girls in black at the club.

At the club he resolutely passed the telephone booths and even got as far as the cloak room before he hesitated.

Then, very slowly, he retraced his steps; went into the nearest booth, and called a number that seemed burnt into his brain. Palla answered.

"Are you doing anything, dear?" he asked—his usual salutation.

"Oh. It's you!" she said calmly.

"It is. Who else calls you dear? May I come around for a little while?"

"Have you forgotten what you——"

"No! May I come?"

"Not if you speak to me so curtly, Jim."

"I'm sorry."

She deliberated so long that her silence irritated him.

"If you don't want me," he said, "please say so."

"I certainly don't want you if you are likely to be ill-tempered, Jim."

"I'm not ill-tempered.... I'll tell you what's the trouble if I may come. May I?"

"Is anything troubling you?"

"Of course."

"I'm so sorry!"

"Am I to come?"

"Yes."

She herself admitted him. He laid his hat and coat on a chair in the hall and followed her upstairs to the living-room.

When she had seated herself she looked up at him interrogatively, awaiting his pleasure. He stood a moment with his back to the fire, his hands twisting nervously behind him. Then:

"My trouble," he explained naively, "is that I am restless and unhappy when I remain away from you."

The girl laughed. "But, Jim, you seemed to be having a perfectly good time at Delmonico's this noon."

He reddened and gave her a disconcerted look.

"I don't see," she added, "why any man shouldn't have a good time with such an attractive girl. May I ask who she is?"

"Elorn Sharrow," he replied bluntly.

Palla's glance had sometimes wandered over social columns in the papers and periodicals, and she was not ignorant concerning the identity and local importance of Miss Sharrow.

She looked up curiously at Jim. He was so very good to look at! Better, even, to know. And Miss Sharrow was his kind. They had seemed to belong together. And it came to Palla, hazily, and for the first time, that she herself seemed to belong nowhere in particular in the scheme of things.

But that was quite all right. She had now established for herself a habitation. She had some friends—would undoubtedly make others. She had her interests, her peace of mind, and her independence. And behind her she had the dear and tragic past—a passionate memory of a dead girl; a terrible remembrance of a dead God.

The heart of the world alone could make up to her these losses. For now she was already preparing to seek it in her own way, under her own Law of Love.

"Jim," she said almost timidly, "I have not intended to make you unhappy. Don't you understand that?"

He seated himself: she lighted a cigarette for him.

"I suppose you can't help doing it," he said glumly.

"I really can't, it seems. I don't love you. I wish I did."

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do.... I wish I were in love with you."

After a moment she said: "I told you how much I care for you. But—if you think it is easier for you—not to see me——"

"I can't seem to stay away."

"I'm glad you can't—for my sake; but I'm troubled on your account. I do so adore to be with you! But—but if——"

"Hang it all!" he exclaimed, forcing a wry smile. "I act like an unbaked fool! You've gone to my head, Palla, and I behave like a drunken kid.... I'll buck up. I've got to. I'm not the blithering, balmy, moon-eyed, melancholy ass you think me——"

Her quick laughter rang clear, and his echoed it, rather uncertainly.

"You poor dear," she said, "you're nearest my heart of anybody. I told you so. It's only that one thing I don't dare do."

He nodded.

"Can't you really understand that I'm afraid?"

"Afraid!" he repeated. "I should think you might be, considering your astonishing point of view. I should think you'd be properly scared to death!"

"I am. No girl, afraid, should ever take such a chance. Love and Fear cannot exist together. The one always slays the other."

He looked at her curiously, remembering what Estridge had told him about her—how, on that terrible day in the convent chapel, this girl's love had truly slain the fear within her as she faced the Red assassins and offered to lay down her life for her friend. Than which, it is said, there is no greater love....

"Of what are you thinking?" she asked, watching his expression.

"Of you—you strange, generous, fearless, wilful girl!" Then he squared his shoulders and shook them as though freeing himself of something oppressive.

"What you may need is a spanking!" he suggested coolly.

"Good heavens, Jim!——"

"But I'm afraid you're not likely to get it. And what is going to happen to you—and to me—I don't know—I don't know, Palla."

"May I prophesy?"

"Go to it, Miriam."

"Behold, then: I shall never care for any man more than I care now for you; I shall never care more for you than I do now.... And if you are sweet-tempered and sensible, we shall be very happy with each other.... Even after you marry.... Unless your wife misunderstands——"

"My wife!" he repeated derisively.

"Miss Sharrow, for instance."

He turned a dull red; the girl's heart missed a beat, then hurried a little before it calmed again under her cool recognition and instant disdain of the first twinge of jealousy she could remember since childhood.

The absurdity of it, too! After all, it was this man's destiny to marry. And, if it chanced to be that girl——

"You know," he said in a detached, musing way, "it is well for you to remember that I shall never marry unless I marry you.... Life is long. There are other women.... I may forget you—at intervals.... But I shall never marry except with you, Palla."

Her smile forced the gravity from her lips and eyes:

"If you behave like a veiled prophet you'll end by scaring me," she said.

But he merely gathered her into his arms and kissed her—laid back her head and looked down into her face and kissed her lips, without haste, as though she belonged to him.

Her head rested quite motionless on his shoulder. Perhaps she was still too taken aback to do anything about the matter. Her heart had hurried a little—not much—stimulated, possibly, by the rather agreeable curiosity which invaded her—charmingly expressive, now, in her wide brown eyes.

"So that's the way of it," he concluded, still looking down at her. "There are other women in the world. And life is long. But I marry you or nobody. And it's my opinion that I shall not die unmarried."

She smiled defiantly.

"You don't seem to think much of my opinions," she said.

"Are you more friendly to mine?"

"Certain opinions of yours," he retorted, "originated in the diseased bean of some crazy Russian—never in your mind! So of course I hold them in contempt."

She saw his face darken, watched it a moment, then impulsively drew his head down against hers.

"I do care for your opinions," she said, her cheek, delicately warm, beside his. "So, even if you can not comprehend mine, be generous to them. I'm sincere. I try to be honest. If you differ from me, do it kindly, not contemptuously. For there is no such thing as 'noble contempt!' There is respectability in anger and nobility in tolerance. But none in disdain, for they are contradictions."

"I tell you," he said, "I despise and hate this loose socialistic philosophy that makes a bonfire of everything the world believes in!"

"Don't hate other creeds; merely conform to your own, Jim. It will keep you very, very busy. And give others a chance to live up to their beliefs."

He felt the smile on her lips and cheek:

"I can't live up to my belief if I marry you," she said. "So let us care for each other peacefully—accepting each other as we are. Life is long, as you say.... And there are other women.... And ultimately you will marry one of them. But until then——"

He felt her lips very lightly against his—cool young lips, still and fragrant and sweet.

After a moment she asked him to release her; and she rose and walked across the room to the mirror.

Still busy with her hair, she turned partly toward him:

"Apropos of nothing," she said, "a man was exceedingly impudent to me on the street this evening. A Russian, too. I was so annoyed!"

"What do you mean?"

"It happened just as I started to ascend the steps.... There was a man there, loitering. I supposed he meant to beg. So I felt for my purse, but he jumped back and began to curse me roundly for an aristocrat and a social parasite!"

"What did he say?"

"I was so amazed—quite stupefied. And all the while he was swearing at me in Russian and in English, and he warned me to keep away from Marya and Vanya and Ilse and mind my own damned business. And he said, also, that if I didn't there were people in New York who knew how to deal with any friend of the Russian aristocracy."

She patted a curly strand of hair into place, and came toward him in her leisurely, lissome way.

"Fancy the impertinence of that wretched Red! And I understand that both Vanya and Marya have received horribly insulting letters. And Ilse, also. Isn't it most annoying?"

She seated herself at the piano and absently began the Adagio of the famous sonata.



CHAPTER X

There was still, for Palla, much shopping to do. The drawing room she decided to leave, for the present, caring as she did only for a few genuine and beautiful pieces to furnish the pretty little French grey room.

The purchase of these ought to be deferred, but she could look about, and she did, wandering into antique shops of every class along Fifth and Madison Avenues and the inviting cross streets.

But her chiefest quest was still for pots and pans and china; for napery, bed linen, and hangings; also for her own and more intimate personal attire.

To her the city was enchanting and not at all as she remembered it before she had gone abroad.

New York, under its canopy of tossing flags and ablaze with brilliant posters, swarmed with unfamiliar people. Every other pedestrian seemed to be a soldier; every other vehicle contained a uniform.

There were innumerable varieties of military dress in the thronged streets; there was the universal note of khaki and olive drab, terminating in leather vizored barrack cap or jaunty overseas service cap, and in spiral puttees, leather ones, or spurred boots.

Silver wings of aviators glimmered on athletic chests; chevrons, wound stripes, service stripes, an endless variety of insignia.

Here the grey-green and oxidised metal of the marines predominated; there, the conspicuous sage-green and gold of naval aviators. On campaign hats were every hue of hat cord; the rich gilt and blue of naval officers and the blue and white of their jackies were everywhere to be encountered.

And then everywhere, also, the brighter hue and exotic cut of foreign uniforms was apparent—splashes of gayer tints amid khaki and sober civilian garb—the beautiful garance and horizon-blue of French officers; the familiar "brass hat" of the British; the grey-blue and maroon of Italians. And there were stranger uniforms in varieties inexhaustible—the schapska-shaped head-gear of Polish officers, the beret of Czecho-Slovaks. And everywhere, too, the gay and well-known red pom-pon bobbed on the caps of French blue-jackets, and British marines stalked in pairs, looking every inch the soldier with their swagger sticks and their vizorless forage-caps.

Always, it seemed to Palla, there was military music to be heard above the roar of traffic—sometimes the drums and bugles of foreign detachments, arrived in aid of "drives" and loans of various sorts.

Ambulances painted grey and bright blue, and driven by smartly uniformed young women, were everywhere.

And to women's uniforms there seemed no end, ranging all the way from the sober blue of the army nurse and the pretty white of the Red Cross, to bizarre but smart effects carried smartly by well set up girls representing scores of service corps, some invaluable, some of doubtful utility.

Eagle huts, canteens, soldiers' rest houses, Red Cross quarters, clubs, temporary barracks, peppered the city. Everywhere the service flags were visible, also, telling their proud stories in five-pointed symbols—sometimes tragic, where gold stars glittered.

Never had New York seemed to contain so many people; never had the overflow so congested avenue and street, circle and square, and the wretchedly inadequate and dirty street-car and subway service.

And into the heart of it all went Palla, engulfed in the great tides of Fifth Avenue, drifting into quieter back-waters to east and west, and sometimes caught and tossed about in the glittering maelstrom of Broadway when she ventured into the theatre district.

Opera, comedy, musical show and cinema interested her; restaurant and cabaret she had evaded, so far, but what most excited and fascinated her was the people themselves—these eager, restless moving millions swarming through the city day and night, always in motion under blue skies or falling rain, perpetually in quest of what the world eternally offered, eternally concealed—that indefinite, glimmering thing called "heart's desire."

To discover, to comprehend, to help, to guide their myriad aspirations in the interminable and headlong hunt for happiness, was, to Palla, the most vital problem in the world.

For her there existed only one solution of this problem: the Law of Love.

And in this world-wide Hunt for Happiness, where scrambling millions followed the trail of Heart's Desire, she saw the mad huntsman, Folly, leading, and Black Care, the whipper-in; and, at the bitter end, only the bones of the world's woe; and a Horseman seated on his Pale Horse.

But the problem that still remained was how to swerve the headlong hunt to the true trail toward the only goal where the world's quarry, happiness, lies asleep.

How to make service the Universal Heart's Desire? How to transfigure self-love into Love?

To preach her faith from the street corners—to cry it aloud in the wilderness where no ear heeded—violence, aggression, the campaign militant, had never appealed to the girl.

Like her nation, only when cornered did she blaze out and strike. But to harangue, threaten, demand of the world that it accept the Law of Service and of Love, seemed to her a mockery of the faith she had embraced, which, unless irrevocably in liaison with freedom, was no faith at all.

So, for Palla, the solution lay in loyalty to the faith she professed; in living it; in swaying ignorance by example; in overcoming incredulity by service, scepticism by love.

Love and Service? Why, all around her among these teeming millions were examples—volunteers in khaki, their sisters in the garments of mercy! Why must the world stop there? This was the right scent. Why should the hunt swerve for the devil's herring drawn across the trail?

One for all; all for one! She had read it on one of the war-posters. Somebody had taken the splendid Guardsman's creed and had made it the slogan for this war against darkness.

And that was her creed—the true faith—the Law of Love. Then, was it good only in war? Why not make it the nation's creed? Why not emblazon it on the wall of every city on earth?—one for all; all for one; Love, Service, Freedom!

Before such a faith, autocracy and tyranny die. Under such a law every evil withers, every question is unravelled. There are no more problems of poverty and riches, none of greed and oppression.

The tyranny of convention, of observance, of taboo, of folkways, ends. And into the brain of all living beings will be born the perfect comprehension of their own indestructible divinity.

* * * * *

Part of this she ventured to say to Ilse Westgard one day, when they had met for luncheon in a modest tea-room on Forty-third Street.

But Ilse, always inclined toward militancy, did not entirely agree with Palla.

"To embody in one's daily life the principles of one's living faith is scarcely sufficient," she said. "Good is a force, not an inert condition. So is evil. And we should not sit still while evil moves."

"Example is not inertia," protested Palla.

"Example, alone, is sterile, I think," said the ex-girl-soldier of the Battalion of Death, buttering a crescent. She ate it with the delightful appetite of flawless health, and poured out more chocolate.

"For instance, dear," she went on, "the forces of evil—of degeneration, ignorance, envy, ferocity, are gathering like a tornado in Russia. Virtuous example, sucking its thumbs and minding its own business, will be torn to fragments when the storm breaks."

"The Bolsheviki?"

"The Reds. The Terrorists, I mean. You know as well as I do what they really are—merely looters skulking through the smoke of a world in flames—buzzards on the carcass of a civilisation dead. But, Palla, they do not sit still and suck their thumbs and say, 'I am a Terrorist. Behold me and be converted.' No, indeed! They are moving, always in motion, preoccupied by their hellish designs."

"In Russia, yes," admitted Palla.

"Everywhere, dearest. Here, also."

"I believe there are scarcely any in America," insisted Palla.

"The country crawls with them," retorted Ilse. "They work like moles, but already if you look about you can see the earth stirring above their tunnels. They are here, everywhere, active, scheming, plotting, whispering treason, stirring discontent, inciting envy, teaching treason.

"They are the Russians—Christians and Jews—who have filtered in here to do the nation mischief. They are the Germans who blew up factories, set fires, scuttled ships. They are foreigners who came here poisoned with envy; who have acquired nothing; whose greed and ferocity are whetted and ready for a universal conflagration by which they alone could profit.

"They are the labour leaders who break faith and incite to violence; they are the I. W. W.; they are the Black Hand, the Camorra; they are the penniless who would slay and rob; the landless who would kill and seize; the ignorant, nursing suspicion; the shiftless, brooding crimes to bring them riches quickly.

"And, Palla, your Law of Love and Service is good. But not for these."

"What law for them, then?"

"Education. Maybe with machine guns."

Palla shook her head. "Is that the way to educate defectives?"

"When they come at you en masse, yes!"

Palla laughed. "Dear," she said, "there is no nation-wide Terrorist plot. These mental defectives are not in mass anywhere in America."

"They are in dangerous groups everywhere. And every group is devoting its cunning to turning the working masses into a vast mob of the Black Hundred! They did it in Russia. They are working for it all over the world. You do not believe it?"

"No, I don't, Ilse."

"Very well. You shall come with me this evening. Are you busy?"

The thought of Jim glimmered in her mind. He might feel aggrieved. But he ought to begin to realise that he couldn't be with her every evening.

"No, I haven't any plans, Ilse," she said, "no definite engagement, I mean. Will you dine at home with me?"

"Early, then. Because there is a meeting which you and I shall attend. It is an education."

"An anarchist meeting?"

"Yes, Reds. I think we should go—perhaps take part——"

"What?"

"Why not? I shall not listen to lies and remain silent!" said Ilse, laughing. "The Revolution was good. But the Bolsheviki are nothing but greedy thieves and murderers. You and I know that. If anybody teaches people the contrary, I certainly shall have something to say."

Palla desired to purchase silk for sofa pillows, having acquired a chaise-longue for her bedroom.

So she and Ilse went out into the sunshine and multi-coloured crowd; and all the afternoon they shopped very blissfully—which meant, also, lingering before store windows, drifting into picture-galleries, taking tea at Sherry's, and finally setting out for home through a beflagged avenue jammed with traffic.

Dusk fell early but the drooping, orange-tinted globes which had replaced the white ones on the Fifth Avenue lamps were not yet lighted; and there still remained a touch of sunset in the sky when they left the bus.

At the corner of Palla's street, there seemed to be an unusual congestion, and now, above the noise of traffic, they caught the sound of a band; and turned at the curb to see, supposing it to be a military music.

The band was a full one, not military, wearing a slatternly sort of uniform but playing well enough as they came up through the thickening dusk, marching close to the eastern curb of the avenue.

They were playing The Marseillaise. Four abreast, behind them, marched a dingy column of men and women, mostly of foreign aspect and squatty build, carrying a flag which seemed to be entirely red.

Palla, perplexed, incredulous, yet almost instantly suspecting the truth, stared at the rusty ranks, at the knots of red ribbon on every breast.

Other people were staring, too, as the unexpected procession came shuffling along—late shoppers, business men returning home, soldiers—all paused to gaze at this sullen visaged battalion clumping up the avenue.

"Surely," said Palla to Ilse, "these people can't be Reds!"

"Surely they are!" returned the tall, fair girl calmly. Her face had become flushed, and she stepped to the edge of the curb, her blue, wrathful eyes darkening like sapphires.

A soldier came up beside her. Others, sailors and soldiers, stopped to look. There was a red flag passing. Suddenly Ilse stepped from the sidewalk, wrenched the flag from the burly Jew who carried it, and, with the same movement, shattered the staff across her knee.

Men and women in the ranks closed in on her; a shrill roar rose from them, but the soldiers and sailors, cheering and laughing, broke into the enraged ranks, tearing off red rosettes, cuffing and kicking the infuriated Terrorists, seizing every seditious banner, flag, emblem and placard in sight.

Female Reds, shrieking with rage, clawed, kicked and bit at soldier, sailor and civilian. A gaunt man, with a greasy bunch of hair under a bowler, waved dirty hands above the melee and shouted that he had the Mayor's permission to parade.

Everywhere automobiles were stopping, crowds of people hurrying up, policemen running. The electric lights snapped alight, revealed a mob struggling there in the yellowish glare.

Ilse had calmly stepped to the sidewalk, the fragments of flag and staff in her white-gloved hands; and, as she saw the irresponsible soldiers and blue-jackets wading lustily into the Reds—saw the lively riot which her own action had started—an irresistible desire to laugh seized her.

Clear and gay above the yelling of Bolsheviki and the "Yip—yip!" of the soldiers, peeled her infectious laughter. But Palla, more gentle, stood with dark eyes dilated, fearful of real bloodshed in the furious scene raging in the avenue before her.

A little shrimp of a Terrorist, a huge red rosette streaming from his buttonhole, suddenly ran at Ilse and seized the broken staff and the rags of the red flag. And Palla, alarmed, caught him by the coat-collar and dragged him screeching and cursing away from her friend, rebuking him in a firm but excited voice.

Ilse came over, shouldering her superb figure through the crowd; looked at the human shrimp a moment; then her laughter pealed anew.

"That's the man who abused me in Denmark!" she said. "Oh, Palla, look at him! Do you really believe you could educate a thing like that!"

The man had wriggled free, and now he turned a flat, whiskered visage on Palla, menaced her with both soiled fists, inarticulate in his fury.

But police were everywhere, now, sweeping this miniature riot from the avenue, hustling the Reds uptown, checking the skylarking soldiery, sending amused or indignant citizens about their business.

A burly policeman said to Ilse with a grin: "I'll take what's left of that red flag, Miss;" and the girl handed it to him still laughing.

Soldiers wearing overseas caps cheered her and Palla. Everybody on the turbulent sidewalk was now laughing.

"D'yeh see that blond nab the red flag outer that big kike's fists?" shouted one soldier to his sweating bunkie. "Some skirt!"

"God love the Bolsheviki she grabs by the slack o' the pants!" cried a blue-jacket who had lost his cap. A roar followed.

"Only one flag in this little old town!" yelled a citizen nursing a cut cheek with reddened handkerchief.

"G'wan, now!" grumbled a policeman, trying to look severe; "it's all over; they's nothing to see. Av ye got homes——"

"Yip! Where do we go from here?" demanded a marine.

"Home!" repeated the policeman; "—that's the answer. G'wan, now, peaceable—lave these ladies pass!——"

Ilse and Palla, still walled in by a grinning, admiring soldiery, took advantage of the opening and fled, followed by cheers as far as Palla's door.

"Good heavens, Ilse," she exclaimed in fresh dismay, as she began to realise the rather violent roles they both had played, "—is that your idea of education for the masses?"

A servant answered the bell and they entered the house. And presently, seated on the chaise-longue in Palla's bedroom, Ilse Westgard alternately gazed upon her ruined white gloves and leaned against the cane back, weak with laughter.

"How funny! How degrading! But how funny!" she kept repeating. "That large and enraged Jew with the red flag!—the wretched little Christian shrimp you carried wriggling away by the collar! Oh, Palla! Palla! Never shall I forget the expression on your face—like a bored housewife, who, between thumb and forefinger, carries a dead mouse by the tail——"

"He was trying to kick you, my dear," explained Palla, beginning to remove the hairpins from her hair.

Ilse touched her eyes with her handkerchief.

"They might have thrown bombs," she said. "It's all very well to laugh, darling, but sometimes such affairs are not funny."

Palla, seated at her dresser, shook down a mass of thick, bright-brown hair, and picked up her comb.

"I am wondering," she said, turning partly toward Ilse, "what Jim Shotwell would think of me."

"Fighting on the street!"—her laughter rang out uncontrolled. And Palla, too, was laughing rather uncertainly, for, as her recollection of the affair became more vivid, her doubts concerning the entire procedure increased.

"Of course," she said, "that red flag was outrageous, and you were quite right in destroying it. One could hardly buttonhole such a procession and try to educate it."

Ilse said: "One can usually educate a wild animal, but never a rabid one. You'll see, to-night."

"Where are we going, dear?"

"We are going to a place just west of Seventh Avenue, called the Red Flag Club."

"Is it a club?"

"No. The Reds hire it several times a week and try to fill it with people. There is the menace to this city and to the nation, Palla—for these cunning fomenters of disorder deluge the poorer quarters of the town with their literature. That's where they get their audiences. And that is where are being born the seeds of murder and destruction."

Palla, combing out her hair, gazed absently into the mirror.

"Why should not we do the same thing?" she asked.

"Form a club, rent a room, and talk to people?"

"Yes; why not?" asked Palla.

"That is exactly why I wish you to come with me to-night—to realise how we should combat these criminal and insane agents of all that is most terrible in Europe.

"And you are right, Palla; that is the way to fight them. That is the way to neutralise the poison they are spreading. That is the way to educate the masses to that sane socialism in which we both believe. It can be done by education. It can be done by matching them with club for club, meeting for meeting, speech for speech. And when, in some local instances, it can not be done that way, then, if there be disorder, force!"

"It can be done entirely by education," said Palla. "But remember!—Marx gave the forces of disorder their slogan—'Unite!' Only a rigid organisation of sane civilisation can meet that menace."

"You are very right, darling, and a club to combat the Bolsheviki already exists. Vanya and Marya already have joined; there are workmen and working women, college professors and college graduates among its members. Some, no doubt, will be among the audience at the Red Flag Club to-night.

"I shall join this club. I think you, also, will wish to enroll. It is called only 'Number One.' Other clubs are to be organised and numbered.

"And now you see that, in America, the fight against organised rascality and exploited insanity has really begun."

Palla, her hair under discipline once more, donned a fresh but severe black gown. Ilse unpinned her hat, made a vigorous toilet, then lighted a cigarette and sauntered into the living room where the telephone was ringing persistently.

"Please answer," said Palla, fastening her gown before the pier glass.

Presently Ilse called her: "It's Mr. Shotwell, dear."

Palla came into the room and picked up the receiver:

"Yes? Oh, good evening, Jim! Yes.... Yes, I am going out with Ilse.... Why, no, I had no engagement with you, Jim! I'm sorry, but I didn't understand—No; I had no idea that you expected to see me—wait a moment, please!"—she put one hand over the transmitter, turned to Ilse with flushed cheeks and a shyly interrogative smile: "Shall I ask him to dine with us and go with us?"

"If you choose," called Ilse, faintly amused.

Then Palla called him: "—Jim! Come to dinner at once. And wear your business clothes.... What?... Yes, your every day clothes.... What?... Why, because I ask you, Jim. Isn't that a reason?... Thank you.... Yes, come immediately.... Good-bye, de——"

She coloured crimson, hung up the receiver, and picked up the evening paper, not daring to glance at Ilse.



CHAPTER XI

When Shotwell arrived, dinner had already been announced, and Palla and Ilse Westgard were in the unfurnished drawing-room, the former on a step-ladder, the latter holding that collapsible machine with one hand and Palla's ankle with the other.

Palla waved a tape-measure in airy salute: "I'm trying to find out how many yards it takes for my curtains," she explained. But she climbed down and gave him her hand; and they went immediately into the dining-room.

"What's all this nonsense about the Red Flag Club?" he inquired, when they were seated. "Do you and Ilse really propose going to that dirty anarchist joint?"

"How do you know it's dirty?" demanded Palla, "—or do you mean it's only morally dingy?"

Both she and Ilse appeared to be in unusually lively spirits, and they poked fun at him when he objected to their attending the meeting in question.

"Very well," he said, "but there may be a free fight. There was a row on Fifth Avenue this evening, where some of those rats were parading with red flags."

Palla laughed and cast a demure glance at Ilse.

"What is there to laugh at?" demanded Jim. "There was a small riot on Fifth Avenue! I met several men at the club who witnessed it."

The sea-blue eyes of Ilse were full of mischief. He was aware of Palla's subtle exhilaration, too.

"Why hunt for a free fight?" he asked.

"Why avoid one if it's free?" retorted Ilse, gaily.

They all laughed.

"Is that your idea of liberty?" he asked Palla.

"What is all human progress but a free fight?" she retorted. "Of course," she added, "Ilse means an intellectual battle. If they misbehave otherwise, I shall flee."

"I don't see why you want to go to hear a lot of Reds talk bosh," he remarked. "It isn't like you, Palla."

"It is like me. You see you don't really know me, Jim," she added with smiling malice.

"The main thing," said Ilse, "is for one to be one's self. Palla and I are social revolutionists. Revolutionists revolt. A revolt is a row. There can be no row unless people fight."

He smiled at their irresponsible gaiety, a little puzzled by it and a little uneasy.

"All right," he said, as coffee was served; "but it's just as well that I'm going with you."

The ex-girl-soldier gave him an amused glance, lighted a cigarette, glanced at her wrist-watch, then rose lightly to her graceful, athletic height, saying that they ought to start.

So they went away to pin on their hats, and Jim called a taxi.

* * * * *

The hall was well filled when they arrived. There was a rostrum, on which two wooden benches faced a table and a chair in the centre. On the table stood a pitcher of drinking water, a soiled glass, and a jug full of red carnations.

A dozen men and women occupied the two benches. At the table a man sat writing. He held a lighted cigar in one hand; a red silk handkerchief trailed from his coat pocket.

* * * * *

As Ilse and Palla seated themselves on an empty bench and Shotwell found a place beside them, somebody on the next bench beyond leaned over and bade them good evening in a low voice.

"Mr. Brisson!" exclaimed Palla, giving him her hand in unfeigned pleasure.

Brisson shook hands, also, with Ilse, cordially, and then was introduced to Jim.

"What are you doing here?" he inquired humorously of Palla. "And, by the way,"—dropping his voice—"these Reds don't exactly love me, so don't use my name."

Palla nodded and whispered to Jim: "He secured all that damning evidence at the Smolny for our Government."

Brisson and Ilse were engaged in low-voiced conversation: Palla ventured to look about her.

The character of the gathering was foreign. There were few American features among the faces, but those few were immeasurably superior in type—here and there the intellectual, spectacled visage of some educated visionary, lured into the red tide and left there drifting;—here and there some pale girl, carelessly dressed, seated with folded hands, and intense gaze fixed on space.

But the majority of these people, men and women, were foreign in aspect—round, bushy heads with no backs to them were everywhere; muddy skins, unhealthy skins, loose mouths, shifty eyes!—everywhere around her Palla saw the stigma of degeneracy.

She said in a low voice to Jim: "These poor things need to be properly housed and fed before they're taught. Education doesn't interest empty stomachs. And when they're given only poison to stop the pangs—what does civilisation expect?"

He said: "They're a lot of bums. The only education they require is with a night-stick."

"That's cruel, Jim."

"It's law."

"One of your laws which does not appeal to me," she remarked, turning to Brisson, who was leaning over to speak to her.

"There are half a dozen plain-clothes men in the audience," he said. "There are Government detectives here, too. I rather expect they'll stop the proceedings before the programme calls for it."

Jim turned to look back. A file of policemen entered and carelessly took up posts in the rear of the hall. Hundreds of flat-backed heads turned, too; hundreds of faces darkened; a low muttering arose from the benches.

Then the man at the table on the rostrum got up abruptly, and pulled out his red handkerchief as though to wipe his face.

At the sudden flourish of the red fabric, a burst of applause came from the benches. Orator and audience were en rapport; the former continued to wave the handkerchief, under pretence of swabbing his features, but the intention was so evident and the applause so enlightening that a police officer came part way down the aisle and held up a gilded sleeve.

"Hey!" he called in a bored voice, "Cut that out! See!"

"That man on the platform is Max Sondheim," whispered Brisson. "He'll skate on thin ice before he's through."

Sondheim had already begun to speak, ignoring the interruption from the police:

"The Mayor has got cold feet," he said with a sneer. "He gave us a permit to parade, but when the soldiers attacked us his police clubbed us. That's the kind of government we got."

"Shame!" cried a white-faced girl in the audience.

"Shame?" repeated Sondheim ironically. "What's shame to a cop? They got theirs all the same——"

"That's enough!" shouted the police captain sharply. "Any more of that and I'll run you in!"

Sondheim's red-rimmed eyes measured the officer in silence for a moment.

"I have the privilege," he said to his audience, "of introducing to you our comrade, Professor Le Vey."

"Le Vey," whispered Brisson in Palla's ear. "He's a crack-brained chemist, and they ought to nab him."

The professor rose from one of the benches on the rostrum and came forward—a tall, black-bearded man, deathly pale, whose protruding, bluish eyes seemed almost stupid in their fixity.

"Words are by-products," he said, "and of minor importance. Deeds educate. T. N. T., also, is a byproduct, and of no use in conversation unless employed as an argument—" A roar of applause drowned his voice: he gazed at the audience out of his stupid pop-eyes.

"Tyranny has kicked you into the gutter," he went on. "Capital makes laws to keep you there and hires police and soldiers to enforce those laws. This is called civilisation. Is there anything for you to do except to pick yourselves out of the gutter and destroy what kicked you into it and what keeps you there?"

"No!" roared the audience.

"Only a clean sweep will do it," said Le Vey. "If you have a single germ of plague in the world, it will multiply. If you leave a single trace of what is called civilisation in the world, it will hatch out more tyrants, more capitalists, more laws. So there is only one remedy. Destruction. Total annihilation. Nothing less can purify this rotten hell they call the world!"

Amid storms of applause he unrolled a manuscript and read without emphasis:

"Therefore, the Workers of the World, in council assembled, hereby proclaim at midnight to-night, throughout the entire world:

"1. That all debts, public and private, are cancelled.

"2. That all leases, contracts, indentures and similar instruments, products of capitalism, are null and void.

"3. All statutes, ordinances and other enactments of capitalist government are repealed.

"4. All public offices are declared vacant.

"5. The military and naval organisations will immediately dissolve and reorganise themselves upon a democratic basis for speedy mobilisation.

"6. All working classes and political prisoners will be immediately freed and all indictments quashed.

"7. All vacant and unused land shall immediately revert to the people and remain common property until suitable regulations for its disposition can be made.

"8. All telephones, telegraphs, cables, railroads, steamship lines and other means of communication and transportation shall be immediately taken over by the workers and treated henceforth as the property of the people.

"9. As speedily as possible the workers in the various industries will proceed to take over these industries and organise them in the spirit of the new epoch now beginning.

"10. The flag of the new society shall be plain red, marking our unity and brotherhood with similar republics in Russia, Germany, Austria and elsewhere——"

"That'll be about all from you, Professor," interrupted the police captain, strolling down to the platform. "Come on, now. Kiss your friends good-night!"

A sullen roar rose from the audience; Le Vey lifted one hand:

"I told you how to argue," he said in his emotionless voice. "Anybody can talk with their mouths." And he turned on his heel and went back to his seat on the bench.

Sondheim stood up:

"Comrade Bromberg!" he shouted.

A small, shabby man arose from a bench and shambled forward. His hair grew so low that it left him practically no forehead. Whiskers blotted out the remainder of his features except two small and very bright eyes that snapped and sparkled, imbedded in the hairy ensemble.

"Comrades," he growled, "it has come to a moment when the only law worth obeying is the law of force!——"

"You bet!" remarked the police captain, genially, and, turning his back, he walked away up the aisle toward the rear of the hall, while all around him from the audience came a savage muttering.

Bromberg's growling voice grew harsher and deeper as he resumed: "I tell you that there is only one law left for proletariat and tyrant alike! It is the law of force!"

As the audience applauded fiercely, a man near them stood up and shouted for a hearing.

"Comrade Bromberg is right!" he cried, waving his arms excitedly. "There is only one real law in the world! The fit survive! The unfit die! The strong take what they desire! The weak perish. That is the law of life! That is the——"

An amazing interruption checked him—a clear, crystalline peal of laughter; and the astounded audience saw a tall, fresh, yellow-haired girl standing up midway down the hall. It was Ilse Westgard, unable to endure such nonsense, and quite regardless of Brisson's detaining hand and Shotwell's startled remonstrance.

"What that man says is absurd!" she cried, her fresh young voice still gay with laughter. "He looks like a Prussian, and if he is he ought to know where the law of force has landed his nation."

In the ominous silence around her, Ilse turned and gaily surveyed the audience.

"The law of force is the law of robbers," she said. "That is why this war has been fought—to educate robbers. And if there remain any robbers they'll have to be educated. Don't let anybody tell you that the law of force is the law of life!——"

"Who are you?" interrupted Bromberg hoarsely.

"An ex-soldier of the Death Battalion, comrade," said Ilse cheerfully. "I used a rifle in behalf of the law of education. Sometimes bayonets educate, sometimes machine guns. But the sensible way is to have a meeting, and everybody drink tea and smoke cigarettes and discuss their troubles without reserve, and then take a vote as to what is best for everybody concerned."

And she seated herself with a smile just as the inevitable uproar began.

All around her now men and women were shouting at her; inflamed faces ringed her; gesticulating fists waved in the air.

"What are you—a spy for Kerensky?" yelled a man in Russian.

"The bourgeoisie has its agents here!" bawled a red-haired Jew. "I offer a solemn protest——"

"Agent provocateur!" cried many voices. "Pay no attention to her! Go on with the debate!"

An I. W. W.—a thin, mean-faced American—half arose and pointed an unwashed finger at Ilse.

"A Government spy," he said distinctly. "Keep your eye on her, comrades. There seems to be a bunch of them there——"

"Sit down and shut up!" said Shotwell, sharply. "Do you want to start a riot?"

"You bet I'll start something!" retorted the man, showing his teeth like a rat. "What the hell did you come here for——"

"Silence!" bawled Bromberg, hoarsely, from the platform. "That woman is recognised and known. Pay no attention to her, but listen to me. I tell you that your law is the law of hatred!——"

Palla attempted to rise. Jim tried to restrain her: she pushed his arm aside, but he managed to retain his grasp on her arm.

"Are you crazy?" he whispered.

"That man lies!" she said excitedly. "Don't you hear him preaching hatred?"

"Well, it's not your business——"

"It is! That man is lying to these ignorant people! He's telling them a vile untruth! Let me go, Jim——"

"Better keep cool," whispered Brisson, leaning over. "We're all in dutch already."

Palla said to him excitedly: "I'm afraid to stand up and speak, but I'm going to! I'd be a coward to sit here and let that man deceive these poor people——"

"Listen to Bromberg!" motioned Ilse, her blue eyes frosty and her cheeks deeply flushed.

The orator had come down into the aisle. Every venomous word he was uttering now he directed straight at the quartette.

"Russia is showing us the way," he said in his growling voice. "Russia makes no distinctions but takes them all by the throat and wrings their necks—aristocrats, bourgeoisie, cadets, officers, land owners, intellectuals—all the vermin, all the parasites! And that is the law, I tell you! The unfit perish! The strong inherit the earth!——"

Palla sprang to her feet: "Liar!" she said hotly. "Did not Christ Himself tell us that the meek shall inherit the earth!"

"Christ?" thundered Bromberg. "Have you come here to insult us with legends and fairy-tales about a god?"

"Who mentioned God?" retorted Palla in a clear voice. "Unless we ourselves are gods there is none! But Christ did live! And He was as much a god as we are. And no more. But He was wiser! And what He told us is the truth! And I shall not sit silent while any man or woman teaches robbery and murder. That's what you mean when you say that the law of the stronger is the only law! If it is, then the poor and ignorant are where they belong——"

"They won't be when they learn the law of life!" roared Bromberg.

"There is only one law of life!" cried Palla, turning to look around her at the agitated audience. "The only law in the world worth obedience is the Law of Love and of Service! No other laws amount to anything. Under that law every problem you agitate here is already solved. There is no injustice that cannot be righted under it! There is no aspiration that cannot be realised!"

She turned on Bromberg, her hazel eyes very bright, her face surging with colour.

"You came here to pervert the exhortation of Karl Marx, and unite under the banner of envy and greed every unhappy heart!

"Very well. Others also can unite to combat you. A league of evil is not the only league that can be formed under this roof. Nor are the soldiers and police the only or the better weapons to use against you. What you agitators and mischief makers are really afraid of is that somebody may really educate your audiences. And that's exactly what such people as I intend to do!"

A score or more of people had crowded around her while she was speaking. Shotwell and Brisson, too, had risen and stepped to her side. And the entire audience was on its feet, craning hundreds of necks and striving to hear and see.

Somewhere in the crowd a shrill American voice cried: "Throw them guys out! They got Wall Street cash in their pockets!"

Sondheim levelled a finger at Brisson:

"Look out for that man!" he said. "He published those lies about Lenine and Trotsky, and he's here from Washington to lie about us in the newspapers!"

The I. W. W. lurched out of his seat and shoved against Shotwell.

"Get the hell out o' here," he snarled; "—go on! Beat it! And take your lady-friends, too."

Brisson said: "No use talking to them. You'd better take the ladies out while the going is good."

But as they moved there was an angry murmur: the I. W. W. gave Palla a violent shove that sent her reeling, and Shotwell knocked him unconscious across a bench.

Instantly the hall was in an uproar: there was a savage rush for Brisson, but he stopped it with levelled automatic.

"Get the ladies out!" he said coolly to Shotwell, forcing a path forward at his pistol's point.

Plain clothes men were active, too, pushing the excited Bolsheviki this way and that and clearing a lane for Palla and Ilse.

Then, as they reached the rear of the hall, there came a wild howl from the audience, and Shotwell, looking back, saw Sondheim unfurl a big red flag.

Instantly the police started for the rostrum. The din became deafening as he threw one arm around Palla and forced her out into the street, where Ilse and Brisson immediately joined them.

Then, as they looked around for a taxi, a little shrimp of a man came out on the steps of the hall and spat on the sidewalk and cursed them in Russian.