He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. He jumped out of his own side once again and ran around the car to open hers in another theatrical display of chivalry. “Katy Pfister. I asked several shopkeepers the same question: ‘Do you know the blue-eyed maid with the curly brown hair? She has a mother who is fair with the same eyes. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. He saw the tragedy on the boy's face; but he was merciless. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. ‘Something for you, Lucy?’ he asked, interrupting a heated argument that had obviously been in progress for some little time before their arrival. Her eyes followed him. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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