She nodded: "'_To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire_----' But there is no '_Him_.' It's you and I.... Both divine.... Suppose we grasp it and '_shatter it to bits_.' Shall we?"

"'_And then remould it nearer to the heart's desire?_'"

"Remould it nearer to the logic of common sense."

Neither spoke for a few moments. Then she drew a swift, smiling breath.

"We're getting on rather rapidly, aren't we?" she said. "Did you expect to lunch with such a friendly, human girl? And will you now take her to inspect this modest house which you hope may suit her, and which, she most devoutly hopes may suit her, too?"

"This has been a perfectly delightful day," he said as they rose.

"Do you want me to corroborate you?"

"Could you?"

"I've had a wonderful time," she said lightly.

CHAPTER VI

John Estridge, out of a job--as were a million odd others now arriving from France by every transport--met James Shotwell, Junior, one wintry day as the latter was leaving the real estate offices of Sharrow & Co.

"The devil," exclaimed Estridge; "I supposed you, at least, were safe in the service, Jim! Isn't your regiment in Germany?"

"It is," replied Shotwell wrathfully, shaking hands. "Where do you come from, Jack?"

"From h.e.l.l--via Copenhagen. In milder but misleading metaphor, I come from Holy Russia."

"Did the Red Cross fire you?"

"No, but they told me to run along home like a good boy and get my degree. I'm not an M.D., you know. And there's a shortage. So I had to come."

"Same here; I had to come." And Shotwell, for Estridge's enlightenment, held a post-mortem over the premature decease of his promising military career.

"Too bad," commented the latter. "It sure was exciting while it lasted--our mixing it in the great game. There's pandemonium to pay in Russia, now;--I rather hated to leave.... But it was either leave or be shot up. The Bolsheviki are impossible.... Are you walking up town?"

They fell into step together.

"You'll go back to the P. & S., I suppose," ventured Shotwell.

"Yes. And you?"

"Oh, I'm already nailed down to the old oaken desk. Sharrow's my boss, if you remember?"

"It must seem dull," said Estridge sympathetically.

"Rotten dull."

"You don't mean business too, do you?"

"Yes, that's also on the b.u.m.... I did contrive to sell a small house the other day--and blew myself to this overcoat."

"Is that so unusual?" asked Estridge, smiling,"--to sell a house in town?"

"Yes, it's a miracle in these days. Tell me, Jack, how did you get on in Russia?"

"Too many Reds. We couldn't do much. They've got it in for everybody except themselves."

"The socialists?"

"Not the social revolutionists. I'm talking about the Reds."

"Didn't they make the revolution?"

"They did not."

"Well, who are the Reds, and what is it they want?"

"They want to set the world on fire. Then they want to murder and rob everybody with any education. Then they plan to start things from the stone age again. They want loot and blood. That's really all they want. Their object is to annihilate civilisation by exterminating the civilised. They desire to start all over from first principles--without possessing any--and turn the murderous survivors of the human ma.s.sacre into one vast, international pack of wolves. And they're beginning to do it in Russia."

"A pleasant programme," remarked Shotwell. "No wonder you beat it, Jack. I recently met a woman who had just arrived from Russia. They murdered her best friend--one of the little Grand d.u.c.h.esses. She simply can't talk about it."

"That was a beastly business," nodded Estridge. "I happen to know a little about it."

"Were _you_ in that district?"

"Well, no,--not when that thing happened. But some little time before the Bolsheviki murdered the Imperial family I had occasion to escort an American girl to the convent where they were held under detention.... An exceedingly pretty girl," he added absently. "She was once companion to one of the murdered Imperial children."

Shotwell glanced up quickly: "Her name, by any chance, doesn't happen to be Palla Dumont?"

"Why, yes. Do you know her?"

"I sold her that house I was telling you about. Do you know her well, Jack?"

Estridge smiled. "Yes and no. Perhaps I know her better than she suspects."

Shotwell laughed, recollecting his friend's inclination for a.n.a.lysing character and his belief in his ability to do so.

"Same old scientific vivisectionist!" he said. "So you've been dissecting Palla Dumont, have you?"

"Certainly. She's a type."

"A charming one," added Shotwell.

"Oh, very."