of the liaison, was her brother’s connection with the unlawful scheme of extortion.  Jim, she saw, had gone wrong with a vengeance, and the consequences to him troubled her, for in spite of all that he might be or do she cherished a sisterly affection for him.  Family ties were very real and very strong to her—­strong enough to keep her loyal to her kin even after the demoralizing change in her whole mode of life.  The firmest, in fact, the only bond that she had ever known, was that of blood; obedience, faithfulness, and affection had been born in her, and she never thought to question their sacredness.

Idling down Fifth Avenue, she found herself in front of a fashionable department store.  A knot of curious people were gaping at a unique automobile which stood in the line of vehicles along the curb, and she paused to look.  The equipage was snow-white in color; its upholstery was of soft, white leather; the chauffeur and a stiff-backed footman were in blood-red with white facings on their livery.  Upon their left sleeves was worked the gold monogram “A.  D.”  In their caps both men wore cockades that resembled shaving-brushes.  A tiny mop of a lap-dog, imprisoned within the closed body of the car, was barking frenziedly at the throng.  He was an animated bundle of cotton, with shoe-button eyes sewed into one end.  As for the car itself, Lorelei decided it to be a combination of every absurd tradition of the coach-builder’s art.  Across the doors, in gold letters an inch high, was the name “Adoree Demorest.”

As she entered the store Lorelei reflected with some disgust that no visiting Rajah, no barbaric potentate—­no one, in fact, except a self-advertised musical-comedy queen—­would so flagrantly defy good taste as to ride in such a vehicle.

She was engaged in her final purchase when a dazzling creature in red and white descended upon her with exclamations of surprise and delight.  It was Mademoiselle Demorest herself, and her greeting was so effusive that the stream of shoppers halted in the aisle.  Mademoiselle Demorest wore a gown of a style that proved her taste in dress as individual as her choice of motor-cars.  A war-like head-decoration of aigrette feathers burst into spray above her right ear; the wrists of her white gloves bore her monogram worked in gold-thread to match those that ornamented the livery of her servants.  A heavy string of white-coral beads, the size of cherries, was looped about her neck, and she carried the mate to the excitable poodle that defied the curiosity-seekers outside.  All in all, she was a figure to awaken interest in the nightly performance at the Palace Garden, and to cause men customers to forget their change.

“Miss Knight!  I’m so glad to see you again,” she burbled.  “How sweet you look!” The poodle pawed frantically and yelped a shrill appreciation of the meeting.  “I hoped we’d meet again; but where have you been?  I—­Hush, Francois!  Shake hands with the lady, there’s a dear.”  Francois squirmed violently and snapped at a small boy whose mother had pushed forward to stare at the notorious beauty.