"More int'resting," said Mr. Moody, indulgently eyeing a great brass lanthorn that hung suspended over Mrs. Millidew's bonnet,—but safely to the left of it, he decided.
"I've been looking for something odd and quaint and—and—you know,—of the Queen Anne period,—trinkets, you might say, Mr. Moody. What have you in that—"
"Queen Anne? Oh, ah, yes, to be sure,—Queen Anne. Yes, yes. I see. 'Pon my soul, Mrs. Smith-Parvis, I fear we haven't anything at all. Most uncommon dearth of Queen Anne material nowadays. We cawn't get a thing. Snapped up in England, of course. I know of some extremely rare pieces to be had in New York, however, and, while I cannot procure them for you myself, I should be charmed to give you a letter to the dealer who has them."
"Oh, how kind of you. That is really most gracious of you."
"Mr. Juneo, of Juneo & Co., has quite a stock," interrupted Mr. Moody tolerantly,—"quite a remarkable collection, I may say. Indeed, nothing finer has been brought to New York in—in—in—"
Mr. Moody faltered. His whole manner underwent a swift and peculiar change. His eyes were riveted upon the approaching figure of a young lady. Casually, from time to time, his roving, detached gaze had rested upon her back as she stood near the window. As a back, it did not mean anything to him.
But now she was approaching,—and a queer, cold little something ran swiftly down his spine. It was Lady Jane Thorne!
