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The arrival of Ambrose Deacon at the Dearborn Station in Chicago coincided with a remarkable demonstration. As he neared the dingy gates beyond which the Chief waited to drag him westward he was forced to push his way through a cheering crowd. Hats were in the air. Flashlight powder exploded into a blinding splendour. Timidly, he questioned a policeman.

It's Imperia Starling, the movie star. She's on her way to Hollywood.

Her public could have been no more turbulent, Ambrose fancied, had she been on her way to heaven. He made her out now, on the platform of the observation car, bowing and smiling, with that taut smile which so easily may be transformed into an expression of malice, her unnaturally pale white face framed by her short black hair, her slender figure emphasized by her gown of white crêpe georgette, partially concealed by a chinchilla cloak. In her arms she carried what Ambrose computed to be about seven hundred dollars worth of orchids, not only the common catelya, but also uncountable sprays