if simone had not already telephoned to the private office of the inner circle's editor, she might have changed her mind about going there that night. she was less superstitious and of harder mental fibre than most frenchwomen of the south and of her class; but after the quarrel between the duke and duchess something within her shrank from keeping the secret appointment she had made.

it was not that she was suddenly conscience-stricken, or that she thought her mistress had suffered enough without having the skeleton in the cupboard dangled in front of the public. the woman was incapable of any real love save self love, but she liked juliet, and would have inflicted upon her no great gratuitous pain. the pain to be inflicted in this instance, however (as well as other instances in the past), was not gratuitous. simone would be magnificently paid for inflicting it, and so far as juliet was concerned, she could earn the reward without a qualm. it was for herself that she hesitated; and she did not quite know why.

that was the trouble! if she had known, she could have argued out the two sides of the matter, for and against. but it was only a vague sort of presentiment she felt, that she would somehow be sorry if she gave this story to the paper she served. and it might not be a proper presentiment at all, but only a form of indigestion. she had (she too vividly recalled) taken at luncheon three helpings of lobster salad, a dish which never agreed with her. besides, she was naturally excited over her part in the events of the day. and then she had telephoned the office. she had camouflaged her message, lest it should be overheard, but what she had said would inform the editor that she had up her sleeve the best tit-bit he had ever got from her.

to-morrow afternoon the inner circle (a weekly publication) would be on sale, and the "whisperer's" columns were always kept back till the latest possible moment, on account of just such morsels dropping in.

but to-night the last paragraphs were to be held up expressly for simone almost beyond the time-limit. she was bound to "make good" or she would never be trusted again, and if the editor were satisfied she was to receive exactly five times the sum she got for more or less valuable items supplied each week.

with a vague, uneasy presentiment in one scale, and five hundred dollars in the other (notes, not a cheque; the inner circle never paid cheques for "whisperer" stuff) the presentiment was outweighed. simone had in any case a dinner engagement which nothing short of death would have induced her to miss; and the duchess had not been gone quite ten minutes when she flew out to keep it.

she said nothing to her dinner companion, however, about the later appointment, and excused herself early on the plea that it would be "like madame to flash in at home, clamouring for her maid, between mrs. van esten's party and the opera, if only for a minute."

certainly it was little more than a minute that simone remained at the phayre house after being brought back after dinner in a taxi. at the end of that time she was out again, and on her way to the office of the inner circle.

about this place there was always something mysterious even to simone's practical and unimaginative mind, and the private office of the editor was the heart of the mystery—the inner circle of the inner circle. for years she had been a highly paid contributor to the scandalous little paper, ever since she had entered her first "smart" situation in new york, and had been approved by a man whose outward business was straightforward reporting for the "society" columns of a reputable daily. when in town, simone had been in the habit of calling in person instead of trusting to the post, and since her value had become recognized, she was invariably received by the editor himself in that very private sanctuary of his. yet to this day she had never seen his face, and did not know his real name.

"mr. jones will speak to you," was the message telephoned down from regions above to the amateurish little reception room, where an elderly, mild-faced lady in old-fashioned dress received visitors and tapped a typewriter.

but the frenchwoman was sure that outside the office he was other than "mr. jones," as sure as that simone amaranthe was at home simonetta amaranti.

the editor's private office was divided practically into two by means of a fixed screen or partition of match-boarding so high that even if an enterprising caller jumped on to a chair he (or she) could not see what lay on the other side. there was no door in this screen, therefore no danger existed that the editor could be "rushed." against the partition was placed a table and a chair of the ordinary "office furniture" type; and other decoration there was none. on the table were writing materials, and a small house-telephone. by means of this instrument one spoke to the presence on the other side, and he spoke in return. that it was always the same presence, simone knew by the voice. it was peculiar, mincing, and rather effeminate, and though she shrewdly attributed this quality to disguise, it could not well have been imitated by an understudy.

this happened to be the first time simone had ever been to the office at night. it was in a cross-town street, within possible walking distance of the phayre house; and this was luck for her, as she would have taken a taxi with great reluctance. this errand of hers was the most ticklish she had ever carried out, and she could not afford to leave the least detail to chance, in case a hue and cry should be raised by the claremanaghs. twenty minutes' brisk walk brought her to the door of what had once been a private house, and was now given up to offices. the inner circle occupied the two lower floors, and above was quite a well-known, though not very fashionable, manicurist, madame veno. still higher, the fourth (and top) floor was tenanted by a wig maker who widely advertised a hair-dye "goldenglints"; and once, when a wave of rage against the "whisperer" swept new york, it was rumoured that both these businesses were secretly owned by the inner circle. no proof was obtainable, however, and since then several new managers had come and gone, both for madame veno and "goldenglints."

to-night the whole house front looked so darkly brooding to simone's worried eyes that she could have believed anything of it, especially anything that was hideous and evil.

there were no lights in the windows, and the front door, always open by day, was closed. but the voice which answered simone's call on the 'phone that afternoon had warned her that this would be so, and had told her what to do. following instructions, she descended the steps to a basement door, and touched an electric bell above which, on a small brass plate, was the word "janitor."

two or three minutes passed, and brought no answer. but suddenly, as simone was about to ring again, the door opened on a chain.

"what do you want?" a woman's voice demanded through the aperture.

"to see the editor of the inner circle," replied simone. "i have an appointment with him."

"oh! what is your name?" questioned the voice.

"mademoiselle simone amaranthe."

the chain fell, and the door opened as if the frenchwoman, challenged, had given the countersign. simone squeezed through the small space allowed her, and the door instantly shut.

it was dark in the basement passage except for the light that came from a room at the back. the woman—the janitor's wife, perhaps—had a little knitted shawl over her head, as though she were suffering from neuralgia. simone could not see what she was like, whether old or young, except that her silhouette loomed tall and slender against the dim light.

"can you find your way up?" asked the voice.

"yes," said simone, "i was told it would be dark,—and that i must bring an electric torch. i have brought it."

"very well. go up, and knock when you come to the door. mr. jones is expecting you."

simone switched on the flame of her torch, and went up.