” “So it would have been at the English Embassy,” Courtlaw answered, “but the place to which you went was not the English Embassy. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. “See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. His face will be all I need. ’ ‘Can you prove it?’ demanded Hilary. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. There was—a service. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted.
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