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It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. ’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. "Go on. "I have a token to deliver to you," continued the stranger, addressing her. But in a moment she believed she understood. Gerald took Madame’s hand and kissed the fingers with a little more warmth than punctilio demanded. Quite right. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest.
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