page was his story, "The Red Cross Girl." It had the place of
honor--right-hand column; but more conspicuous than the
headlines of his own story was one of Redding's, photographs.
It was the one he had taken of Sister Anne when first she had
approached them, in her uniform of mercy, advancing across
the lawn, walking straight into the focus of the, camera.
There was no mistaking her for any other living woman; but
beneath the picture, in bold, staring, uncompromising type,
was a strange and grotesque legend.

"Daughter of Millionaire Flagg," it read, "in a New Role,
Miss Anita Flagg as The Red Cross Girl."

For a long time Sam looked at the picture, and then, folding
the paper so that the picture was hidden, he walked to the
open window. From below, Broadway sent up a tumultuous
greeting--cable cars jangled, taxis hooted; and, on the
sidewalks, on their way to work, processions of shop-girls
stepped out briskly. It was the street and the city and the
life he had found fascinating, but now it jarred and
affronted him. A girl he knew had died, had passed out of his
life forever--worse than that had never existed; and yet the
city went or just as though that made no difference, or just
as little difference as it would have made had Sister Anne
really lived and really died.

At the same early hour, an hour far too early for the rest of
the house party, Anita Flagg and Helen Page, booted and
riding-habited, sat alone at the breakfast table, their tea
before them; and in the hands of Anita Flagg was the DAILY