as an express engine starts. And already the heat, as yesterday, was
formidable. But _she_ would not suffer to-day; she was not in Department
42.

He went further and further, aimlessly penetrating to the very heart of
the jungle of departments. He had glimpses of departments that he had
not seen for weeks. At length he came to the verdant and delicious
Flower Department (hot-house branch), and by chance he caught a word
which brought him to a standstill.

'What's that?' he asked sharply, of a salesman in white.

'Order for orange-blossom, sir. A single sprig only. Rather a curious
order, sir.'

'You can supply it?'

'Without doubt, sir.'

'Who is the customer?'

'Mr. Francis Tudor,' replied the salesman, looking at a paper. 'No. 7,
the Flats.'

'Ah yes,' he said; and thought: 'My life is over.'

He gazed with unseeing eyes into the green and shady recesses of the
palmarium, where water trickled and tinkled.

What was the power, the influence, the lever, which Francis Tudor was