CHAPTER IV.
THE FALLING OF THE HANDKERCHIEF Monsieur Albert looked over her shoulder for the man who must surely be in attendance--but he looked in vain.
"Mademoiselle wishes a table--for herself alone!" he repeated doubtfully.
"If you please," she answered.
It was obvious that Mademoiselle was of the class which does not frequent night cafes alone, but after all that was scarcely Monsieur Albert's concern.

She came perhaps from that strange land of the free, whose daughters had long ago kicked over the barriers of sex with the same abandon that Mademoiselle Flossie would display the soles of her feet a few hours later in their national dance.

If she had chanced to raise her veil no earthly persuasions on her part would have secured for her the freedom of that little room, for Monsieur Albert's appreciation of likeness was equal to his memory for faces.

But it was not until she was comfortably ensconced at a corner table, from which she had a good view of the room, that she did so, and Monsieur Albert realized with a philosophic shrug of the shoulders the error he had committed.
Phyllis looked about her with some curiosity.

It was too early for the habitues of the place, and most of the tables were empty.