preparing notes for my next lecture.” 

 “Of course, yes. Mustn’t interrupt you. I suppose you’re having a great time, gassing away—I mean—well, good-bye!” 

 “Good-bye!” 

 Mrs. Hignett, frowning, for the interview had ruffled her and disturbed that equable frame of mind which is so vital to the preparation of lectures on Theosophy, sat down at the writing-table and began to go through the notes which she had made overnight. She had hardly succeeded in concentrating herself when the door opened to admit the daughter of Erin once more. 

 “Ma’am, there was a gentleman.” 

 “This is intolerable!” cried Mrs. Hignett. “Did you tell him that I was busy?” 

 “I did not. I loosed him into the dining-room.” 

 “Is he a reporter from one of the newspapers?” 

 “He is not. He has spats and a tall-shaped hat. His name is Bream Mortimer.” 

 “Bream Mortimer!” 

 “Yes, ma’am. He handed me a bit of a kyard, but I dropped it, being slippy from the dishes.” 

 Mrs. Hignett strode to the door with a forbidding expression. This, as she had justly remarked, was intolerable. She remembered Bream Mortimer. He was the son of the Mr. Mortimer who wanted Windles. This visit could only have to do with the subject of Windles, and she went into the dining-room in a state of cold fury, determined to squash the Mortimer family, in the person of their New York representative, once and for all. 

 “Good morning, Mr. Mortimer.” 

 Bream Mortimer was tall and thin. He had small bright eyes and a sharply curving nose. He looked much more like a parrot than most parrots do. It gave strangers a momentary shock of surprise when they saw Bream Mortimer in restaurants, eating roast beef. They had the feeling that he would have preferred sunflower seeds. 

 “Morning, Mrs. Hignett.” 

 “Please sit down.” 

 Bream Mortimer looked as though he would rather have hopped on to a perch, but he sat down. He glanced about 

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