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money would never hold the same zest. He said that, but then, being a clear-sighted man, he

added: "It's a habit, and I suppose I'll go on reacting in the old way; but I can't imagine I'll ever

be happy."

They talked about the problem of the missing one, and what was to be done. Lanny had

promised not to name Hugo Behr, and he didn't, but said that he had a confidential agent at

work, and had given him the Juan address. Hansi was to open all mail that might come from

Germany, and if it contained anything significant, he was to cable it. Johannes said that Hansi

and Bess would have to give up the pleasure of playing music at Red meetings, or doing anything

to advertise their anti-Nazi views. They were still Göring's prisoners; and that was, no doubt, the

way Göring intended it to be.

Hansi was "broke" because he and Bess had been spending all their money on refugees. That,

too, would have to stop. Since it would do no good to sit around and mourn, Hansi decided to

cable his New York agent to arrange a concert tour of the United States in the fall. Meantime,

Irma would open an account for him at her bank in Cannes. "But remember," she said, "no

more Reds and no Red talk!" Irma laying down the law!

All problems thus settled, one bright morning Irma and Lanny, with Papa in the back seat,

set out amid more cries in English, German, and Yiddish—this time not so happy. They arrived

in Paris and had dinner with Zoltan Kertezsi, and in the morning drove to Les Forêts, and told

Emily Chattersworth as much of their story as was permitted. In the afternoon they set out for

Calais, place of bitter memories forevermore. They took the night ferry, drove through England

in the loveliest of all months, and arrived at the Dorchester Hotel amid the gayest of all seasons.

VII

Sir Vincent Caillard, pronounced French-fashion, Ky-yahr, had been one of Zaharoff's

associates from the early days when they had bought Vickers; in the course of the years he had

become one of the richest men in England. Also, strangely enough, he had been a poet, and had

set Blake's Songs of Innocence to music; he had bequeathed these interests to his wife, along

with a huge block of Vickers shares. So it had come about that an elderly, gray-haired lady,

rather small, pale, and insignificant-looking, wielded power in London, and concentrated upon

herself the attention of a swarm of eccentric persons, some of them genuine idealists, more of

them genuine crooks.

She had purchased a large stone church in West Halkin Street and made it over into one of

the strangest homes ever conceived by woman. The gallery of the church had been

continued all around it and divided into bedrooms and bathrooms. The organ had been

retained, and when it was played all the partitions of the rooms seemed to throb. On the ground

floor was a grand reception room with art treasures fit for a museum; among them was a

splendid collection of clocks; a large one struck the quarter-hours, and the front of the clock

opened and a gold and ivory bird came out and sang lustily. Lady Caillard also collected scissors.

Whoever came to that home was at once presented with a copy of the late husband's poems, also a

copy of her ladyship's pamphlet entitled: Sir Vincent Caillard Speaks from the Spirit World. If

you could devise a new kind of praise for either of these volumes it would be equivalent to a

meal-ticket for the rest of your life—or, at any rate, of Lady Caillard's life.

Mr. and Mrs. Dingle and Madame Zyszynski were comfortably ensconced in this former house

of God, and Beauty had had time to collect all the delicious gossip concerning its affairs. Pausing

only for a tribute of grief to Freddi, she opened up to her son a truly thrilling line of

conversation. Lady Caillard had become a convert to spiritualism, and now lived as completely

surrounded by angels and ministers of grace as William Blake in his most mystical hours. She

maintained a troop of mediums, and one of the spirits had directed the invention of a machine

called the "Communigraph," whereby Sir Vincent, called "Vinny," could send messages to his

wife, called "Birdie." The machine had been set up in "The Belfry," as this home was called, and

had been blessed by Archdeacon Wilberforce in a regular service; thereafter the seance room,

known as the "Upper Room," was kept sacred to this one purpose, and at a regular hour every

Wednesday evening Sir Vincent gave his wife a communication which he signed V.B.X., meaning

"Vinnie, Birdie, and a Kiss." These messages were now being compiled into a book entitled A New

Conception of Love.

But, alas, love did not rule unchallenged in these twice-consecrated premises. There was a new

favorite among the mediums, a woman whom the others all hated. Beauty's voice fell to a

whisper as she revealed what huge sums of money this woman had been getting, and how she

had persuaded her ladyship to bequeath her vast fortune to the cause of spiritualism, with the

spirits to control it. Lady Caillard's two children, lacking faith in the other world, wanted their

father's money for themselves, and had quarreled with their mother and been ousted from her

home; they had got lawyers, and had even called in Scotland Yard, which couldn't help. There

was the most awful pother going on!

Into this seething caldron of jealousies and hatreds had come Mabel Blackless, alias Beauty

Budd, alias Madame Detaze, alias Mrs. Dingle, herself an object of many kinds of suspicion; also

her husband, teaching and practicing love for all mankind, including both adventuresses and

defrauded children; also a Polish woman medium with an unspellable name. Beauty, of course,

was looked upon as an interloper and intriguer, Parsifal Dingle's love was hypocrisy, and

Madame's mediumship was an effort to supplant the other possessors of this mysterious gift.

Beauty was as much pleased over all this as a child at a movie melodrama. Her tongue tripped

over itself as she poured out the exciting details. "Really, my dears, I wouldn't be surprised if

somebody tried to poison us!" Her manner gave the impression that she would find that a

delightful adventure.

One of the guests in this strange ex-church was the Grand Officer of the Legion d'Honneur

and Knight Commander of the Bath. He appeared to be failing; his skin had become yellowish

brown, with the texture of parchment; his hands trembled so that he kept them against some

part of his body, and would not attempt to write in the presence of anyone. He had grown

much thinner, which accentuated the prominence of his eagle's beak. As usual, Zaharoff kept

himself out of all sorts of trouble, and took no sides in this family row; his interest was in

getting messages from the duquesa, and he would sit tirelessly as long as any medium would

stand it. But he still hadn't made up his mind entirely; he revealed that to Lanny, not by a

direct statement, but by the trend of the questions he kept putting to the younger man.

It was permissible for Lanny to mention that a young friend of his had not been heard from

in Germany; whereupon this hiveful of mediums set to work secreting wax and honey for him.

Most of it appeared to be synthetic; Lanny became sure that some clever trickster had guessed

that the missing person was a relative of Johannes Robin, himself recently named in the

newspapers as missing, and now suddenly arriving with the Budds. Since Hansi had been

interviewed in Paris on the subject, it couldn't be he who was lost. Since Freddi had been in