paradox of warning. The theater of this coming contract before
high heaven was a wilderness of roses worth the taxes of a county.
The high caste of Manhattan, by the grace of the check book, were
present, clothed in Parisian purple and fine linen, cunningly and
marvelously wrought.

Over in her private pew, ablaze with jewels, and decked with
fabrics from the deft hand of many a weaver, sat Mrs. Miriam
Steuvisant as imperious and self-complacent as a queen. To her it
was all a kind of triumphal procession, proclaiming her ability as
a general. With her were a choice few of the genus homo, which
obtains at the five-o'clock teas, instituted, say the sages, for
the purpose of sprinkling the holy water of Lethe.

"Czarina," whispered Reggie Du Puyster, leaning forward, "I salute
you. The ceremony sub jugum is superb."

"Walcott is an excellent fellow," answered Mrs. Steuvisant; "not a
vice, you know, Reggie."

"Aye, Empress," put in the others, "a purist taken in the net. The
clean-skirted one has come to the altar. Vive la vertu!"

Samuel Walcott, still sunburned from his cruise, stood before the
chancel with the only daughter of the blue blooded St. Clairs. His
face was clear and honest and his voice firm. This was life and
not romance. The lid of the sepulcher had closed and he had
slipped from under it. And now, and ever after, the hand red with
murder was clean as any.