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 back to the persons with whom they had foregathered the night before. The hostile servant interrupted them by coming in with a parcel of laundry. The concierge, she declared, was outside, waiting to be paid.

Somebody, Grover recollected, with an inner smile, is always willing to pay his bills; this time I bet it's going to be me.

Vaudreuil had tossed the parcel on a table beside his couch. "Could you lend me some change, mon ami? I don't seem to have any at the moment."

When this rite had been accomplished, and the table cleared, Grover asserted his advantage to the extent of giving his host a hint.

"While you are dressing," he suggested, "I'm going to take the liberty of reading some of your music."

He went to the piano, and rummaged among the sheets. There was a preponderance of songs, many of them difficult, though all the old concert standbys seemed to be included. As he played his way through them, absorbed in the task, he was aware that some indefinable impression was working free in his subconsciousness and floating up toward the brim of recognition. When Vaudreuil came back into the room, clothed and groomed, it burst upon him.

Good God, he exclaimed inwardly, he's done his eyebrows! And at the same moment the N. J. unrolled itself across his mind's eye: Noémi Janvier!

For a long moment his thoughts stood still, then