"Oh… . I see… ." he heard Mrs. Pulsifer murmur; and he was vaguely conscious of the fading of the light from her eyes.

"Well, good-bye," he repeated. She seemed about to speak, to make some sign to detain him; but her narrowed lips let pass only a faint echo of his good-bye. It drifted mournfully after him as he walked down the endless perspective of tapestried and gilded emptiness to the hall below, where the tall young man in dark clothes and silver buttons was waiting with a perfectly matched twin to throw back the double doors. Vance wondered ironically whether they added to their other mysterious duties that of investigating Mrs. Pulsifer's cases; but he knew that his own, at any rate, would never be brought up for examination.

One of the fellows at the Cocoanut Tree gave him the name of a moneylender; and a few days later he had a thousand dollars in his pocket. He told Mrs. Tracy he had enough to pay off Hayes, and asked for his address. She gave it without comment, and Vance, thankful to avoid explanations, returned to New York the next day to discharge his debt. He had no idea how he was going to meet the interest on the loan; but he put that out of his mind with the ease of an inexperienced borrower.

The address led to a narrow office building in an uptown street, where, across the front of an upper floor, he read: "STORECRAFT," and underneath: "Supplies Taste and saves Money." He was admitted to a small room with roughcast walls, a sham Marie Laurencin, slender marquetry chairs, and a silvered mannequin in a Spanish shawl. There he waited till a fluffy-headed girl in a sports suit introduced him to an inner office, where Bunty Hayes, throned at a desk, was explaining to another girl: "Chanel, six almond-green Engadines: Vionnet, duplicate order apricot charmeuse pyjamas… ." He broke off and sat staring. "Patou, six pastel-blue Rivieras—" he went on automatically; then, with a change of tone: "All right, Gladys; we'll finish up later." The girl vanished, and he turned to Vance. "Say, I didn't see it was you, first off."

"Maybe you're too busy," Vance began.

"No, but I was expecting a fellow with a new style of bust-restrainer. Never mind; sit down." He pushed a chair forward. His manner was curt and businesslike, but not unfriendly; and Vance felt less at ease than if he had not been met with anathemas.

"You're on a new job," he said tentatively.