CHAPTER XI.
ONE stormy February fternoon, some two months later, the wet snow smothered the air and lay, sodden and gray, on the steaming streets. Early twilight lurked in the sky, and the street-lamps, giving out a dim, yellow haze, made the half-lights more confusing.
In Mrs. Durham's rooms the lamps were not yet lighted. In the dusk the four occupants of easy chairs luxuriated in comfortable companionship. Three cigarette-lights punctuated the mysterious penumbra—Morton's, Victoria's, and Sonia Palintzka, Countess Krempelkin's. Mrs. Durham did not indulge; instead she chewed her cork-tipped penholder.
"Must you go to Washington on Wednesday, Sonia?" inquired Victoria, beseechingly. "You've only been here a week."
"I'm afraid so," the countess answered, smil-
