The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. This service rendered, without waiting for any farther order, she withdrew. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. “I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. I can help you to both,—nay, I will help you to both, if you do not interfere with my plans. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed.
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