"my goodness gracious!" gasped natalie lowndes. "billy—wake up! have you seen 'the whisperer stuff'?"

billy woke up.

it was just after dinner, early yet to begin the real evening at the grumblers (known to some outsiders as the "plunderers") club; and lowndes had been killing time with a nap.

"whisperer stuff?" he repeated, in a dazed, almost startled way; and when billy looked startled he was not at his best. some years ago he had been considered handsome: a big, athletic fellow with wavy auburn hair brushed back from a low forehead, reddish bronze skin, and big black eyes like those of his sister, lady west. but the auburn hair had faded and thinned, growing far back on the forehead, which had now become unnaturally high. he was less athletic that he had been, because his principal exercise was taken indoors these days, and consisted of bridge and poker, poker and bridge, varied by roulette. his splendid muscular development was slowly degenerating into fat; and his large face was all red without the bronze. his eyes, too, had changed, and though still big had a goggling prominence that was not attractive. this was why he did not, when startled, look his best. the eyes goggled—his wife said to herself—like a pollywog's. and aloud she said to him: "don't pretend not to know what i mean by 'whisperer' stuff."

"i was asleep," lowndes excused himself, mildly.

"you don't need to tell me that by word of mouth," natalie shrugged. "you've been advertising the fact through another organ. besides, you never can keep awake fifteen minutes after dinner if we're alone together. not that it matters! ... what i asked was, have you seen 'the whisperer stuff' in this week's inner circle?"

"no," returned lowndes. "don't you know i never read the rag? i've told you so pretty often."

"everybody tells everybody else that they never read it. yet i suppose it sells hundreds of thousand a week. my copy's just come in. jane brought it—and you didn't hear her because you were snoring. i thought you might have seen it at the club before you left, and not said anything so as to make me speak first."

"why, has the viper got in a dig against us?"

"vipers don't dig. no, thanks to heaven or the other thing, there's nothing on us. but it's all about someone you're just as much interested in—more interested than you are in me, anyhow. juliet claremanagh."

"oh!" billy sat up straight in his chair, though he did not seem to be as intensely excited as his wife had thought he would be. "does the pig mention her by name?"

"the pig does not. he might as well, though, for everybody will know who's meant. by jove, i wouldn't be juliet to-night!"

"i believe you!" grunted lowndes. but he did not believe her. he seldom did; and in this instance not at all, because he was sure she would give her eyes to be juliet, just as sure as that he would give his to be juliet's husband. "what's the racket this time?"

"i'll read the stuff aloud to you," said his wife; and began: "let's whisper!"

"that a certain foreign gentleman of title, with one of the prettiest and richest young wives in new york, is much to be sympathized with, because he has got a bad cold.

"but—he is to be congratulated on the marvellous medicine with which he is able to combat this ailment.

"let's whisper again!

"this medicine is worth its weight in gold. only millionaires can afford to take it at home, and alone, as louis of bavaria used to take wagner's operas.

"we know he was alone, because the pretty, rich young wife was out, full up with engagements for the whole afternoon. and we know he is a millionaire—oh, we know it in such a simple way! it's because his wife is a millionairess. see? the 'whisperer' thought you would!

"and now for the medicine. that needs another whisper. sh!

"we spell it with a capital m, because it has been a royal medicine since salome, the daughter of herodias, administered it to king herod. dancing is a fine art, and its greatest exponent at present in our city is fair enough to cure any king (to say nothing of the lesser nobility) even if she did not dance for him. but of course, the 'whisperer' is sure she did dance, because with what other motive should she pay a call of consolation upon a nobleman with a cold, when his wife was not at home to nurse him? can you think of any?

"let's whisper, that blade is very becoming to tall slender ladies with white skin and copper hair, even when they wear thick veils. nothing suits them better, unless it's pale blue, and blue pearls. but ladies with golden hair have now taken to appearing in blue pearls—ropes of them. the 'whisperer' supposes they are real. why, certainly! could they be otherwise? yet, on the other hand, are there two such ropes in the world? we shall see. we may see any day now! and the 'whisperer' hopes and prays that if we do see there won't be trouble. both the ladies are so charming. pearls are so compromising. and the gentleman is so popular.

"let's whisper: what a game of consequences!"

"there!" mrs. lowndes finished with a gasp. "what do you think of that?"

"can you beat it?" her husband answered with a question.

"i can't," said natalie. "but i guess the duke will beat something or someone. he'll have to."

"you mean the 'whisperer!' h'm! before you cook your hare, you've got to catch him. a whole lot of men have tried to catch that one. but the inner circle still circulates."

natalie brooded for a moment. when she was a girl, in a set that was conspicuous though not first rate, the "whisperer" had whispered several nasty things about her. he, she, or it had said that she had come from "peoria or somewhere" to new york to buy a husband, and had kindly warned her that persons not rich enough to pick and choose their goods had better snap up what they could get the first day of the sale, at the cheap bargain-counter. since she had taken that advice and snapped up billy lowndes, the "whisperer" had for some reason been silent; but natalie had never forgiven or forgotten the attack on her attractions, and she had always burned to have some other victim arraigned for justifiable homicide.

"i bet claremanagh will break the vicious circle!" she said.

"and i bet he won't. why should he bring off a stunt none of us ever brought? they say there's nothing to break. some husband or father goes murder-mad, bursts into the circle office, and finds no one on the premises but a little old lady. can he bash that? besides, why make a cap fit you by wearing it? lord knows what that d—d 'whisperer's' working up to when he hints at the claremanagh pearls being false. but if they are, the duke must have sold them himself, and had a copy made—two copies, perhaps. by george, i shouldn't wonder if that's just what he did do!—sell—i mean, juliet told my sister emmy that claremanagh refused the million or so she wanted to settle on him, and intended to join the working classes over here. he doesn't get a salary to be proud of, at the phayre bank, i know for a fact. but i've seen him playing poker at the grumblers and—er—another game elsewhere. last night he waltzed into the grumblers after the opera, and i happened to see him pass a roll of yellow-backs as big as my fist into a man's hand. the other chap dropped the lot, by accident, and the noble duke stood still with his nose in the air while they were collected. i saw a one thousand-dollar bill with my own eyes, and i have a hunch there were a heap more of the same sort."

"who was the man?" natalie asked, curiously.

"i've forgotten his name," billy evaded her. "there are a lot of new men in the club lately i know only by sight."

"tell that to the marines!" she scoffed. "you've got some reason for keeping his name dark. did any one else see claremanagh pay him the money? because, if they did, i'll be sure to find out."

"i think everyone was pretty busy just then. i wouldn't have seen, if i hadn't been cutting out of a game at the moment. it's nothing to me who the man was. you're always so damned suspicious of anything i say."

natalie shrugged her shoulders, a favourite gesture. "but not of what you do, i don't care enough," she retaliated, and picked up the inner circle again to re-read "the whisperer stuff", while she richly pictured juliet's feelings.

she didn't know the duchess very well, but she thought that there would be "ructions."

"pavoya must have been at the house while juliet was lunching with me," she told herself. "i shouldn't wonder if the duke had sold his pearls. won't juliet be wild if she finds out the wonderful rope everyone was talking about last night was false?"

natalie grew so absorbed in settling just what she would write to emmy west that she did not even speak to billy when he went out. she was sure he was going to the "plunderers," and she was right. nevertheless, she had made one mistake about him. he had told the truth in saying that he did not know the name of the man to whom claremanagh had handed a roll of notes. he did, however, wish to know, and as soon as possible. but he arrived to find everyone talking of "the 'whisperer' stuff" in the inner circle. most of the men were defending the duke, who had an extraordinary way of making himself liked without trying; and this vexed lowndes. he had a grudge against claremanagh for marrying juliet phayre, the only girl who bad ever given him a heartache. losing her and getting natalie had made him the man he was.

"what i want to find out is, who is the chap claremanagh paid about a hundred thousand dollars to last night, here in this club?" he said.

"a hundred thousand dollars?" somebody echoed. "how do you know?"

"i do know," lowndes persisted, provocatively, and made up his mind to stick to the statement. "i do know. and what i'd like to know also, in the circumstances, is how did he get the money?"

"ask the winds!" laughed the other.

"easier to ask his wife."

"you believe she knows?"

"no, not how he got the stuff. but i guess she thinks she knows, which is just as interesting."

juliet was utterly indifferent that night as to whether or not her thoughts were interesting to outsiders. pat and herself filled the world for her. there was no one else—not even jack manners—who existed for her after she had read the "whisperer": except lyda pavoya. but the polish dancer was not for juliet a fellow-being. she was a lure-light, a mermaid, a siren.

simone was in the habit of buying the inner circle for the duchess on the day of publication. she had never been ordered to do this, but her mistress in the last place she had filled in new york had expected the "rag" to appear in her boudoir as soon as it was on sale, and simone (with a certain cynical enjoyment) had unobtrusively supplied the paper to juliet without being asked.

it was a disgrace to new york, and utterly disgusting and unreliable, of course, and juliet scorned it as a horrid beast. all the same, she read it every week before flinging it on the floor or pitching it into a wastepaper basket. sometimes she was angry at its nasty digs at people she knew; sometimes she chuckled (one had to!). as her car took her home from jack manners' hotel she suddenly remembered that it was inner circle day.

could that fiend of a "whisperer" have got hold of anything new about pat and pavoya? juliet could not see that this was possible. but there was almost sure to be some mention of the blue pearls she had worn at the opera, unless the news had been too late for press. she was so miserable already that she wondered at herself for feeling so small a prick in the midst of a deep and all-pervading pain. yet she was conscious of uneasiness, and it remained in the back of her mind throughout the day.

she had not expected to see pat at luncheon, and if she had seen him, she would have suffered disappointment. whether he were merely resentful against her for the things she had said to him, or whether he were ashamed to face her because he had lied, and she knew it, juliet could not tell. in his absence, he was as vitally present as if she saw him before her eyes. indeed, she did see him—with lyda pavoya. it seemed certain that he must have gone to lyda, if only to demand some explanation of what had happened to the pearls. and it was conceivable that, if he were convinced she had robbed him, he might have a reaction of feeling against the woman. in such a case, he would perhaps return and implore his wife to forgive him.

as she thought this, juliet hardened her heart against his charm, his magnetism which she knew to be almost irresistible. she would resist it! it would be ridiculous to let herself be cajoled by pat's irish ways. he would laugh in his sleeve if he could persuade her that he had never loved pavoya.

but the day wore on, and he did not come home.

all she knew about him was that he must have spent some late part of the night in the house, because simone had casually mentioned an early meeting in the hall as he went out, about nine in the morning. he had handed the maid a few letters, which he said were for the duchess to read and attend to, rather than for him. that was all. and though juliet did not mean to pardon him, she would have given the price of the lost pearls to be begged for her forgiveness.

now and then, like a faint undertone in wild music, returned the thought of the inner circle, and at the time when it should be lying on a certain table in her boudoir, juliet looked for it. the paper was not there!

she had come in from her bedroom, a wrapper thrown over her nightgown, for she was pretending to have a headache, and had gone to bed on returning from the tarascon, as an excuse for throwing over all engagements.

"there's something horrid about pat or me in the rag," she guessed instantly. "simone's read, or heard about it, and means to 'forget' the paper."

it would not be pleasant to ask, but after all simone was only a servant! juliet rang the bell communicating with her maid's room, and soon the neat figure in black presented itself.

"madame la duchesse has rung?"

"where is that horrid inner circle?" the duchess inquired.

simone looked self-conscious. she said that, madame being souffrante, she had forgotten to buy the paper. it was of so little importance! but juliet would not be put off. the frenchwoman was sent out to get the inner circle, and when she had got it, was told that she would be needed no more for the moment. therefore claremanagh's wife was alone when she read the "whisperer's" insinuations.

strangely enough—or was it strange?—her anger turned in a torrent-flood against the man who ran the rag. none was left for pat. juliet burned for him to come home so that they could—even if "on official terms only"—join together in scotching this scandal. she felt that she must see her husband at once. but she could not send for him without being misunderstood. if she were able to reach him by 'phoning to one of his clubs, he would think that he was being called back to a scene of reconciliation because his wife was too much in love to live without him for more than a day. no! even though her rage was too concentrated in another direction to blaze upon pat, she didn't wish him to think that he was forgiven.

again jack manners seemed her best hope, and she 'phoned him at the tarascon. he was out, the answer came, and juliet asked that the duchess of claremanagh should be called up as soon as he came in.

an hour later the bell of her telephone jingled. jack had returned to his suite at the tarascon.

"i thought you'd never come!" she complained.

"but," he excused himself, "you gave me a mission. i've been doing my best to pave the way."

"you mean you've met pavoya?'

"not yet. but i shall meet her to-night. she's dancing, you know. or—why should you know? an old friend of mine—and hers, too—has arranged an introduction. that's the only news i have for you, so far."

"i didn't ring you up to ask for news," said his cousin, though her quick brain caught at a welcome deduction: if jack were to meet pavoya at a party or something, it did not look as if pat had pardoned her for the pearls. otherwise they would be together. "i want you to see pat for me," juliet went on. "not to make it up! when you find him, tell him that to begin with, please. but he and i must meet, and talk over this horrible 'whisperer' business. i don't want a scandal—anyhow that kind!—any more than he does. tell him it's cowardly to run away and stay away like this. it makes things worse. tell him he must come home—or bring him."

"i can't put things to pat in that way, but i'll see him if you wish," answered jack. "where is he?"

"i don't know." (juliet's voice sounded disconsolate and very young, even through the 'phone.) "at some club, i suppose. do call me when you've found him."

it was seven o'clock.... after three more hours of suspense juliet rushed to the telephone at first sound of the bell. if it were not jack—or pat—she should scream. but it was jack.

"i can't find claremanagh anywhere, or hear of his movements since two o'clock," manners said. "he was then at a club you probably never heard of. it's called 'the joint'. all sorts of men belong—actors, writers, lawyers, sportsmen, and at least one private detective! pat isn't a member. i shouldn't have thought of the place if a man i know (the one who will introduce me to mademoiselle pavoya) hadn't mentioned seeing pat there this morning with two men. that's why i went round, after i'd tried everywhere else. well, he was there at five, with the detective i spoke of just now, and a frenchman named defasquelle. that name will strike you! he had an appointment to come back and dine with defasquelle who, it seems, came with an introduction and has been made a foreign member. in fact, he's staying at the club, and i have been talking with him. in the hope of seeing pat at eight, i waited, because defasquelle was so sure he would come. but at half-past nine he hadn't turned up. i've 'phoned everywhere i can think of since, and left word that i'm to be called whenever there's news, no matter what time. when i go out—as i must do if i'm to meet the lady—i shall leave my address with the tarascon people."

"what can have happened to pat!" manners heard juliet cry.

"don't worry. he's certain to be all right," jack assured her. but he wasn't quite comfortable upon that point himself and had quietly 'phoned all the hospitals. it looked queer that claremanagh hadn't kept that engagement with defasquelle. he had apparently been anxious to keep it. if there had been an accident to a man so well known, surely the news would have got into the evening papers. yet there was no news anywhere of any kind, since the duke had walked out of "the joint" at five. were such a thing not too absurdly far-fetched, jack would have asked himself if any one existed who might wish claremanagh to disappear?