her hand-bag for something unknown, "our secretary will thank you
formally. It was she who sent you our request, was it not? She
_will_ so regret being absent to-day."

"She did not send me a request, Mrs. Manners," persisted St. George
pleasantly, "but I've been uncommonly glad to do what I could. I am
here simply on a mission for the _Evening Sentinel_."

Mrs. Manners drew something indefinite from her bag and put it back
again, and looked vaguely at St. George.

"Your voice reminds me so much of my brother, younger," she
observed, her eyes already straying to the literature for
distribution.

With soft exclamatory twitters the Readers' Guild thanked St.
George, and Miss Bella Bliss Utter, who was of womankind who clasp
their hands when they praise, stood thus beside him until he took
his leave. The woman in the red waist summoned an attendant to show
him back down the long corridor.

At the grated door within the entrance St. George found the warden
in stormy conference with a pale blond youth in spectacles.

"Impossible," the warden was saying bluntly, "I know you. I know
your voice. You called me up this morning from the _New York
Sentinel_ office, and I told you then--"

"But, my dear sir," expostulated the pale blond youth, waving a
music roll, "I do assure you--"