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Eleanor, who knew the value of jewels, realized from their color and size that the rubies were almost priceless, and in the pure joy of beholding their beauty laid the necklace in the palm of her left hand and along her bare arm. After contemplating the effect for a moment, a thought occurred to her, and she pulled out the remaining cotton in the box and found at the bottom a small card. She picked it out and read the message written on the card.

“The appointment was not kept. Well done.”

The card fluttered to the floor unheeded. The pigeon blood rubies made a crimson stain on Eleanor’s white arm, strong wrist, and supple fingers.

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DOUGLAS HUNTER sighed involuntarily as he left busy Fourteenth Street, and walked down Massachusetts Avenue. Twelve years’ absence makes a great difference in the ever-shifting population of Washington. He felt like another Rip Van Winkle as he gazed at each passer-by in his search for a familiar face. Even the streets had changed, and he was almost appalled by the grandeur of some of the huge white palaces erected by multimillionaires on Massachusetts and New Hampshire Avenues, and the Avenue of the Presidents. He had spent part of the morning motoring about the city with one of his cousins, and the outward and visible signs of wealth had staggered him. What had become of the unpretentious, generous-hearted hospitality, and the old world manners and courtly greeting of the former host and hostess who had ruled so long at the National Capital? Had Mammon spoiled the old simplicity, and had Washington become but a suburb of New York and Chicago? It truly seemed as if plutocracy had displaced aristocracy.