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gentleman should use of another.)
    Mr. O'Connell had not even scrupled to exploit an innocent child in his pursuit of a journalistic sensation. The paragraphs mentioning Ramses were in the worst possible taste. There was no need to mention the fact that Ramses was regarded by certain Egyptians (the most ignorant and superstitious) as a kind of juvenile jinni, a demon in youthful shape. I also deeply resented O'Connell's implication that only negligent, uncaring parents would expose a child so young and so "delicate" (his word, not mine) to the unhealthy climate and manifold perils of an archaeological excavation. Compared to London, Egypt is a veritable health resort, and I had certainly done all any human female could do to prevent Ramses from exploring abandoned pyramids, being buried alive in the sand, and carried off by Master Criminals.
    So it was in a frame of mind almost as homicidal as Emerson's would have been that I prepared myself for the assignation. I had of course meant to take my parasol. I never go abroad, in London or in Egypt, without it. It is the most useful object imaginable, serving not only as a protection against sun or rain, but, when need calls, as a defensive weapon. At the last minute I turned back to the bureau and removed from it another article of attire. Emerson is always making fun of my belt, even though the implements attached to it, in the manner of an old-fashioned chatelaine, have more than once saved us from a horribleand lingering death. Matches in a waterproof box, a little flask of pure water, notebook and pencil, scissors, knife—these examples are sufficient to explain why my belt was an indispensable aid in all climes and countries—including certain parts of London. The belt itself was of stiff leather, two inches wide, and on one memorable occasion it had served me well—to fend off (for a brief but vital interval) a threat more perilous than death.
    I managed to leave the house unobserved by any of the occupants except Gargery the butler. He was new to the post, having been hired since I last was in England: a sandy-haired, youngish man of medium height and build, with an ingenuous face that had not quite mastered the perfect imperturbability the office requires. He stared at my belt and its jingling accouterments as if he had never seen such a thing before (which in fact I suppose he had not).
    St. James's Square is not far from Pall Mall and the bustling traffic of Regent Street; but on that dismal spring afternoon it might have been a thousand miles from the city. Fog muffled the clatter of wheels and horse's hooves and gave a ghostly air to the budding trees that surrounded the pool in the center of the square.
    Following the direction O'Connell had indicated, I turned into York Street and then into the first street opening off to the left. I hoped I was going the right way; I wished he had not been so cursedly vague and theatrical. His gesture of drinking left open the question of whether he referred to a restaurant, or a teashop, or a coffee stall; the only thing I could do was walk on until I found an establishment in which liquid refreshment was purveyed, or until I saw O'Connell himself.
    Before long I found myself in a neighborhood quite unlike the aristocratic purlieus of St. James's Square. It was respectable enough, I suppose, but the houses were cramped close together and the people hurrying by had a shabby, harried look. There were not many umbrellas in evidence; I held mine high, peering keenly from side to side in search of a familiar face and form.
    It was not his face or form I made out first, but the flaming Titian locks not even a London pea-souper could mute. He stood peering out from the recessed doorway of an establishment bearing the extraordinary name of The Green Man; seeing me approach, he waved his cap and a broad smile spread across his freckled face.
    I furled my umbrella and joined him in the shelter of the recess. Keeping a wary eye on the