overlooked the entrance-hall and the smoking-room. Only a small
portion of the clerical work of the great hotel was performed there.
The place served chiefly as the lair of Miss Spencer, who was as
well known and as important as Jules himself. Most modern hotels
have a male clerk to superintend the bureau. But the Grand
Babylon went its own way. Miss Spencer had been bureau clerk
almost since the Grand Babylon had first raised its massive
chimneys to heaven, and she remained in her place despite the
vagaries of other hotels. Always admirably dressed in plain black
silk, with a small diamond brooch, immaculate wrist-bands, and
frizzed yellow hair, she looked now just as she had looked an
indefinite number of years ago. Her age - none knew it, save
herself and perhaps one other, and none cared. The gracious and
alluring contours of her figure were irreproachable; and in the
evenings she was a useful ornament of which any hotel might be
innocently proud. Her knowledge of Bradshaw, of steamship
services, and the programmes of theatres and music-halls was
unrivalled; yet she never travelled, she never went to a theatre or a
music-hall. She seemed to spend the whole of her life in that
official lair of hers, imparting information to guests, telephoning
to the various departments, or engaged in intimate conversations
with her special friends on the staff, as at present.

'Who's Number 107?' Jules asked this black-robed lady.

Miss Spencer examined her ledgers.

'Mr Theodore Racksole, New York.'

'I thought he must be a New Yorker,' said Jules, after a brief,