LITMIR.BIZ

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arrived, still coatless, still with his effect of being insecure about the buttons.

      "I will dine here," the strange lady announced to him, with that fine calm of hers, and tapped her hand on the table.

      "1 was sittin' here," complained the man, "an' up she comes an' says she's goin' to have my place."

      The manager surveyed them, all three, with little twinkling eyes; he had the situation by the throat, as it were, before the man had finished speaking. He never made the mistake of backing the weaker party in any contest.

      "Dat's right," he said briskly. "Giuseppe,"—to the waiter—"lay de place for de lady. An' you come along."

      The last words were for the man; he gave in, and rose, growling.

      "This is a hell of a game," he said.

      "Yes," said the manager. "Dis way."

      The strange lady took the chair he had vacated, and smiled at Miss Fraser.

      "I 've not made a mistake, have I?" she inquired. "I was watching, and I thought you might be glad of an interruption."

      Miss Fraser found a difficulty in answering. She laid her knife and fork down, and sat back, fighting with herself to keep from crying. All through the week that was passed, she had shed no tear. From the gate of the courtyard there reached them the final stages of a debate between the manager and the parting guest.

      "You go out on your 'ead or your feet, vich you like," the former was saying.

      Miss Fraser managed at length to find words. "If I only knew how to thank you," she said "He—he has been haunting me for a week. I did n't know what to do."

      The elder woman stared at her critically. "No," she said; "I suppose you wouldn't know. But next time, my dear, try to remember that a man who occupies himself with a woman is sentimental, and therefore weak. Bark at him, my child; say things crudely in a loud, unsympathetic voice. They are always afraid that others will hear. Waiter!"

      "Madame?"

      "The wine list!" She turned to Miss Fraser again. "And now," she said, "tell me about yourself. My name's Gregory—Miss Gregory; that 'll do for a basis of understanding."

      She took the wine list from the obsequious hand of Giuseppe, and ran an experienced finger down a page. She selected a popular brand of champagne. "And bring me the cork," she ordered.

      She was bright and shrewd, panoplied with assurance, a woman of potency and energy. She dominated the place; it became a mere pale background to her personality, and the people in it mere shadows. But, with all her strength and directness, there was a note of humanity; little Miss Fraser found herself leaning forward, telling the whole pitiful tale of her troubles, from Mrs. Colby's disappointment in her as a companion to her lack of funds. Miss Gregory ate in silence while she heard her.

      "Colby!" she said then. "I don't know the name. And so she turned a child like you adrift on this Coast? I'm going to Rhodesia presently. I wonder if I shall meet her."

      "But what do you think I ought to do?" asked Miss Fraser, rather timidly, for Miss Gregory seemed to be occupied with thoughts.

      "Do!" repeated that lady. "Do! Oh—drink some of this champagne. Do you think that man will come back here to-night?"

      "Sometimes he comes and knocks at my door," said Margaret, with a shudder.

      Miss Gregory nodded. "Well, eat your dinner," she said. "No sense in starving yourself, particularly as you'll be going aboard the boat in another hour."

      "The boat!" Miss Fraser let her knife and fork fall into her plate. "The boat!"

      "Sit still," said Miss Gregory. "Don't jump like that; you'll upset your glass. Yes; the boat's the only thing for you. You see, I have a berth to Lourenço Marquez; you can take that and meet the homeward-bound boat there. There'll be no trouble about the extra fare; I 'll attend to that. Now, if you 're going to cry, for goodness' sake go and cry in your room."

      "I—I'm not going to c-c-cry," said Margaret. "But what will you do?"

      "I shall make a few notes on Beira for a book which I am writing," replied Miss Gregory.

      It was nearly midnight when Miss Gregory, tasting the night breeze from the road above the sea-wall, saw the steamer's departure—lights upon lights in beady rows, floating over the level waters to the rhythm of moving engines. With them, installed in an upper-deck cabin, fevered with gratitude and happiness, went little Margaret Fraser, whom Mrs. Colby had found to be nothing more than a child. Miss Gregory eyed the distant lights thoughtfully, and emitted that token of mental exercise which, in men, is called a grunt.

      "She was a moist little thing," she said, in recollection of the girl's parting tears; "but, since she could n't save her own soul, somebody had to save it for her."

      She walked back to the hotel at a leisurely pace, remarking, for purposes of literature, that Beira was at its liveliest at midnight. The manager greeted her with much deference as she entered the courtyard again; he had the born innkeeper's affection for people who could both bully him and pay him. At her order, he had given her the room left vacant by Miss Fraser's departure, though it warred with his sense of fitness that she should not inhabit a more stately (and a costlier) apartment. She went now to her room, and in its privacy relieved herself of her more constrained garments. A dressing-gown and slippers helped her to the frame of mind in which she wrote most easily, and she set herself to her big note-book and the chronicle of her days. There was a deck-chair there; she adjusted it to the scanty light of her lamp and went to work.

      "The pistol-pocket in my tweed skirt is very well concealed, but the weight of the revolver drags it to one side too much."

       She had just written these words in her diary, at the end of a couple of hours of note-making, when the boards of the balcony outside her door creaked loudly; there was an unmistakable footstep. She laid her diary down, with the pencil between its leaves, and rose from her chair, listening acutely. Some one was approaching on tiptoe. A hand touched the door.

      A hoarse whisper carried through it.

      "Little one," it said. "Little one."

      Miss Gregory did not move; she stood motionless, waiting.

      "Come," sounded the whisper, again. "I don't want to hurt you. Unlock the door just for a minute." It was as though some hangman had tried to speak persuasively; there was a horrible tone of cajolery in the voice.

      Miss Gregory looked at the door; it was not locked nor bolted. A cautious hand sounded on the handle, and it opened three inches. There was a pause, as though this midnight visitor were alarmed to find the door would open.

      "Hey, little one," he said again, in the same urgent whisper, and pushed the door open.

      "Ah,' said Miss Gregory. "Stand there, please. You did n't expect to see me?"

      He had started back and made as if to flee when his eyes fell upon her, but her command held him. He gaped at her impotently.

      "Don't move," said Miss Gregory. She sat down again. "I want to look at you, first; I won't keep you long."

      He was desperately afraid of what was to come. This was not a woman in any sense that he understood. This was one of those creatures of which such men as he go in fear; they have neither sex nor nationality, but only strength. He stood, breathing irregularly, and Miss Gregory leaned her head back against the chair and surveyed him.

      There was fear in his face, abject and overmastering fear, and the features on which it dwelt seemed shaped for its habitation. Once, perhaps, that face had expressed possibilities; one could trace it in the empty form of that conventional amiability which is the very seed-ground of weakness. But it was swamped, merged, drowned in the wrecking influences of all vileness. It was hungry and lewd and foolish, false and empty and sorrowful—the face of an imbecile Judas. Miss Gregory pursed her lips as she scanned it, and saw the features writhe and twitch as the broken man groped for his bearings.

      She took up her note-book, and

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