HER MASTERPIECE

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 6, 8 February 1908, Page 17

HER MASTERPIECE

by

HENRY C. ROWLAND

CHAPTER 111. I WILL drop you out at the Boulevard St. Germain and then take the ladies home,” said Mr. Hammersmith. He turned to Mrs. Jerome, who was in the tonneau with Forest and the Mayor. "I do not like to go through Lucian’s street; my mud-guards are apt to break the windows on both sides.” “ Drop us out here by the Cluny,” saia Fores., “ and we will catch a taximeter. 1 could not walk across the street in this goat-coat.” “ Very well.” Hammersmith stopped. “ Remember that you are to meet Chew and me at Maxim’s to-night at half after eleven. I’ve engaged a table. It’s Reveillon, you know.” Bidding the others good-bye, the two men got down. Forest motioned to a passing cab. “Did you enjoy Fontainebleau?” asked the artist, as they drove along. “ Very much; 1 had no idea that there were any real woods in France, especially so near Paris. But it does detract from the romance to be riding after a stag and have the pack turn into a long, straight macadamised road.” “ And then have somebody turn the stag by hitting an auto-norn! ” “ Yes, or waving a parasol. It makes killing the poor beast unpleasant. But it was a beautiful spectacle. What a very attractive man the count is. I’m glad to meet such a Frenchman; 1 did not believe that there were any.” “ There are a great many. Americans are too apt to judge the French by the boulevard types. And Helene?” Hr glanced quickly at his friend, then out of the window. The mayor hesitated. “ She is charming ; you were right in pronouncing her a typical American girl. She is. in everything but her education. Did you ” he hesitated, colouring a trifle, then glanced quickly at Forest, who was still looking at the shop windows—“ have the opportunity of saying anything to her parents ? ” “ No.” Forest turned slowly and looked his friend in the eyes. “ Are you disappointed?” “No —no! ” said the mayor. His face was turned to the window. “ Not at all; there is really no desperate hurry, and it is just as well to approach so serious a matter with deliberation. What a beautiful girl she is, Luce, and how she can ride! ” “ You were the most envied man in the field,” said Forrest. “ I deserved to be. Poor Hammersmith’s horse went lame in the first three miles and he had to haul out. I wanted to offer him mine when I saw his face. “ He would not have taken it, and I doubt if Helene would have been pleased. Really, old chap ” —again Forest glanced keenly at the mayor—“you have made an impression.” “ Oh, nonsense! ” “ Yes, but you have. She keeps looking at you, which is the first symptom. All that you have to do is to go ahead; you are the first man I have seen whom she appears to thoroughly enjoy being with. Hammersmith is a good chap, and she is very fond of him, but there are a good many angles passing overhead when they’are together. So you really find a good time with no drawbacks? I’m so glad.” “Thanks, Luce. Yes.” The mayor’s voice was flat as corked champagne. “I really had a thoroughly good time.”

He hesitated. “ There—there was just one thing ” He paused. “ Yes? ” “ Just one thing to—to—” “ Whift was that? ” “Well, of course, it didn’t really mar it —but it kept cropping up in my mind just when things were at their gayest.” The mayor stopped abruptly and looked out of the window. "Well?” “ Oh, nothing.” "But there is something. Did you get thinking that you had to go back to work in about a month?” “No, no! Not for a minute! it hasn’t got to that degree of slavery; but when things were bightest and everybody was having the most fnn ” The mayor looked straight at Forest. “ Don’t think that I’m a sentimental chump, Luce, but, somehow, my mind would turn to that artist girl—Carroll Winn.” “ The eurse of a too kind heart.” “ No, it wasn’t that! It wasn’t pity. The contrast struck me; I thought of her; hang it, I more than thought of her! I saw her just as plainly as if her face had been looking at me from between my horse’s ears. Yet I wasn’t sorry for her a bit. 1 knew that she was happy; probably happier than any of those idle people in that hunting-field. “ Nevertheless, .you were sorry for her! ” “ No.” A tinge of excitement crept into the mayor’s voice- “ She had proved to me that she was beyond pity. I was not a bit sorry for her, but 1 wished that she were there, seeing the thing, enjoying it; don’t you see? 1 had the feeling that she would have got so much more out of it than those others, even Helene; she would have seen more, felt more; a lot of it seemed to be going to waste without her. Odd, wasn’t it?” " Very.’’ “ Did you ever have that feeling about a person?” “No, not yet; but 1 hope to”—Forest’s head was turned away and lie was staring out of the window—" some day.” ‘'Uli-what? What 'did you gay, Luce? ” “ Oh, nothing. What you tell me is very interesting. Then that was the only way in which you thought of her? ” “No!” The mayor’s voice lowered a trifle. “ And that is the funny part of it.” He fell silent. “ What, Tom?” “ Oh, it’s foolish. Confound it, 1 must be in a bad shape. Liver or graymatter jaded—or something.” He gave a short laugh. “Why? What happened?” “ Weil—don’t josh me, Luce—but do you remember a little incident when Helene asked you if you were ever going to finish that dry-point portrait of herself? ” “ Perfectly. I said that I could not work by artificial light, and that the last few days had been too dark.” “ That’s it.” The tinge of excitement in the mayor’s voice intensified. " 1 suppose that it was the thought-association conveyed by your words, the thought of a dark studio, you see; at any rate, whatever the cause, I had all at once a weird feeling of familiarity with those very words, of exactly the same thing asked and answered- * It’s not finisher!; has been too dark.’ And at the same moment I saw that girl’s face.” “ Carroll Winn?” “Yes, and it was so terribly tragic!”

The mayor’s breath came quickly. “And something seemed to tell me that she was in trouble of some sort.” He grew silent. “ So that,” said Forest slowly, “ was what made you so distrait after the ehasse? ” “ Perhaps. I hope ” — the mayor’s voice was troubled —“that nobody noticed it? ’’ “They did; but they put it down to another cause.” “ What? ” “ Oh, I don’t know. They might have thought that you were in love.” “In love! How ridiculous!” “ Not altogether. It would not be so hard to fall in love with Helene after being two days in her company; and you had been reasonably attentive.” “ Naturally, since 1 want to marry her. Besides, I like her.” “ Nobody thought,” observed Forest dryly, “ that it was because you disliked her.” “ And do you really mean to say that they put my distraction down to —to — having fallen in love?” exclaimed the mayor. “The birth of the tender passion has been known to produce similar effects.” “ But how ridiculous! ” “ It can do no harm for them to think so; especially as you intend to push your suit vigorously.” Forest glanced at his friend. “ Oh—eh—of course, of course. Better have ’em think that than that 1 was bored.” “ Infinitely! ” “Yet it seems so absurd to think of a man of my age and experience getting in love in that silly way, head first, like a pup falling into a fountain.” “ Stranger things have happened. But tell me more of your vision. Did your little artist give any other evidences? ” “Don’t eall her my little artist!” said the mayor. “She isn’t mine, and she is almost as tall as I am, ami her name is Miss Winn. She would look big enougn to you, and individual enough if you eould only see her work.” “No doubt. I beg her pardon, and yours. I shall be much interested to see if there will be any reason for your psychical impressions. Myself, 1 am a believer iu such things. The spiritual communication between two natures in accord—— ” “ Oh, fudge! ” “ I am, though. 1 have seen some very wonderful things in that line right here in the quartier.” “Where?” “ In the Ecole de Psychologic, Rue St. Andre des Arte. Moreover, 1 made the acquaintance of a man during the pours who used himself to do some extraordinary things.” “ Such as? ” “ One day when we were oil in my studio I mentioned that 1 needed a certain model whom 1 had not seen for a long time- I was asking if anybody knew where to find her when this chap, who is a Polish doctor, said that perhaps he eould bring her there.” “‘When?’ I asked.” “ ‘ Now,’ said he. ‘Concentrate your mind upon her.’ I did so. And about twenty minutes later she came into the studio and asked if I had any need of her.” “Oh, rot! ’’ said the mayor. “Coincidence! ” “ Very possibly,” admitted the artist. “ They happen.” “ But that sort of thing,” said the

mayor, “ is quite different from whet 1 have been telling you about. 1 had no fool trance nor hallucination nor anything like that. I only saw' her face as you might see anything that your mind is dwelling on.” “Oh. of course.” said Forest, smiling. “ But you know ” —he turned to the mayor, still smiling—“ this is the Reveillon—Christmas Eve; the night of all the year when spiritual forces are most potent. If ever a message could be sent upon the ■wireless systems of our organisations, it would be to-day.” “Shucks!” said the mayor, “I haven’t any' wireless. I am ultra-material, and your French cooking has put some of my liver cells to sleep. The stag-hunt has jolted them to life again; fancies bid ones- There is nothing to lay ghosts like cross-country riding or calomel. Voila! ” “You brute!” said the artist, laughing. “You red-corpuscled, boned, and muscled insensate American savage! Nothing like calomel to lay a ghost! Ye gods! If Ibsen had know that we might have been spared a few surplus creeps. Well; here we are.” The cab stopped and the two stepped out. As they entered, the surly concierge was standing by the door of his den, and seeing them, drew back a trifle. They were at the foot of the stars when there reached their ears from above the sound of many voices chattering together. “What is going on up there?” asked Forest of the concierge. The man thrust out his jaw. “It is a sale, monsieur, of the effects of a tenant who has been evicted for being unable to pay the rent.” “Truly? Who is it?” “Mademoiselle Winn.” growled the man. “Eh, what! What!” The mayor thrust himself forward, his straight brows knitting over his clear, grey' eves. "What is this about Mademoiselle Winn ?” The concierge regarded him maliciously. "She has paid no rent for months, monsieur, and as I am acting for Monsieur Cadoret, the loeataire, I have had an attachment of her effects by the huissier.” “Since when?” asked the mayor, in a voice which suggested the click of machinery. “For the past six weeks, monsieur. If Monsieur Cadoret war not a fool he would have sold he» sut long ago! Of what value are her Mattered gowns and a few worthless daubs?” “Has the sale begun?” asked the mayor, in a low voice. The concierge drew back. “No, monsieur; the sale is set for one o’clock. It lacks but ten minutes.” “Then.” said the mayor. “I will pay the arrears of rent myself and you may send these people away.” A gleam of triumph appeared upon the man’s bloated face. “It is now too late, monsieur. The sale has been announced and must proceed.” The mayor turned to Forest. “Do you know the address of this artist from whom Miss Winn sub-lets?” he asked. “Is he in town?” “I think very likely. He told me that he was coining up from Rome for the holidays. His people live in the Faubourg St. Germain.” “Will you go around and see if you can get hold of him and arrange things. Luce? Tell him that a friend of Miss Winn will pay the arrears and the advance; then drop in on your landlord, and tell him that I will pay for the repair of the elevator on one condition—that the

concierge is fired out of here before six! If necessary offer a premium. Then come right back. lam going up to attend the sale.” Forest laughed nervously. “All right, Tom,” said he. “Go right off, please.” The mayor turned to the concierge. “This will cost you your place, bonhomme,” said he, and walked to the stairs. Carroll’s studio was filled with a shabby crowd composed of the small local art-dealers of the quarter who had dropped in hoping to pick up something for six sous which they might sell for a franc or two. The moment that the mayor entered he was conscious of an atmosphere of intense but subdued excitement. Carroll’s studies were ranged along the wall; her portrait stood upon the easel exposed to a good light from the long window, and as the mayor glanced at it he caught his breath at the beauty of the thing. Ignorant as he was of the technical virtues of a work of art, no one could have failed to be impressed with the wonder of the life contained in the picture. For Ogilvie there was the added marvel of the likeness. Real, warm, breathing, the face seemed to lean from the canvas as if wondering at its fate, questioning, eager, intense, it waited only the answering word to speak itself. Two Frenchmen were standing before the easel discussing the portrait; as the mayor watched them one caught his eye, muttered something to the other, and both moved away. Politician that he was, Ogilvie was trained in reading human emotion. His suspicions were aroused. In a few minutes the sale began. First on the list was the portrait, and after a few words of mechanical praise by the salesman, a dealer across the room bid five francs. “One hundred francs,” snapped Ogilvie. A rustle went about the room; no one bid again until the astonished salesman fiad all but accepted the offer; then from the corner a voice piped: “One hundred and five.” The mayor glanced in that direction and saw that the bidder was one of the men whom he had observed studying the picture when he entered. His suspicion deepened. “Two hundred,” he bid curtly. There was another long pause; then the thin voice piped: “Two hundred and five.” “Five hundred,” said the mayor. The room hummed like a beehive. Five hundred francs for a painting by a woman artist who had been evicted for being unable to pay a quarter’s rent! Yet as the people present glanced from Ogilvie to the portrait their faces grew thoughtful. “Five hundred and five,” croaked the Frenchman. “If that portrait is worth a hundred dollars to a Hebrew art-dealer in the centre of the artistic quarter of Paris,” thought the mayor, “there is no longer any question of its genius.” A warm wave of exultation swept through him. The girl was right! He was right! Lucian, the skeptic, would be convinced. But above all his heart sang within him at the thought of Carroll’s happiness when she should know. “Seven hundred,” he bid. “Seven hundred and five,” came the voice from the corner. “Eight hundred,” said the mayor, a gleam in his grey eyes. For the first time in his life he enjoyed being bid against at a sale. “Eight hundred and fifty.” The murmur grew louder, and the salesman began to grow excited. “Nine hundred,” said the mayor, with feigned reluctance. A silence followed, and the mayor thought that the limit had been reached. Then a new voice from another part of the room bid softly: “Nine hundred and fifty.” There was a craning of necks in that direction. A small, fat man with a very, pale, red beard and red rims around his eyes was elbowing his way across the room toward the easel. In front of it he turned to the salesman. “Would monsieur delay an instant to give me an opportunity to examine the painting?” he asked. The salesman glanced at the mayor. “If you wish,” said the mayor indifferently.’ “Anybody can see at a glance that it is worth many thousand francs!” All eyes looked at him suspiciously, then returned to the portrait. In an intense silence the dealer closely examined the painting. “Merci, monsieur.” he said, with a bow. “I bid one thousand francs.”

“Two hundred dollars!” muttered the mayor, then to the salesman: “Eleven hundred.” No answering bid was made, and the mayor stepped up and paid for his purchase. The hussier, remarking that the one picture had realised the amount of indebtedness of the sous-locataire, announced that the sale was over. Charging the man with his responsibility for the remaining studies and then mollifying his offended dignity with a ten-franc piece, the mayor took the portrait from the easel and ascended the stairs to Forest’s studio. There, he calmly dispossessed a painting of his friend, and placing the portrait on the easel, seated himself upon the divan and gazed upon it long and earnestly. The wonderful face looked questioningly back at him from the canvas. The mayor was neither romantic nor sentimental. Like most Anglo-Saxons of stern and vigorous fibre he had trained himself from boyhood to crowd back within him any demonstration of emotion, even when alone. Therefore, it was strange that as he studied feature by feature the wonderful face before him, he gradually discovered himself to be in the grip of some very potent and powerful influence, which, if not emotion, presented at least all of its empiric signs. His heart-action quickened involuntarily, and strangely enough, as he stared into the vivid, breathing face, his eyes dimmed and his swallowing became awkward and inconvenient. At the same time there began to steal over his entire consciousness such a hunger, a longing, a deep, overpowering desire, that his face grew suddenly pale, and his limbs weak. Then, in a great wave of understanding his vision cleared; the mists were whipped away in the blaze of a strong, clear light; and the mayor sprang to his feet and stared at the portrait which looked back at him with its sweetly questioning gaze—and as he looked the full consciousness of his infirmity swept upon him in a deluge. He took a step toward the easel, his eyes bright, his fists clenched. “So help me God!” he cried, half-aloud, in a hurt, wondering voice. “I love her! I love her!” His eyes widened. “Why, Heaven help me, I’ve loved her all the time! From the very first! And to think that I never should have guessed it! 1 love her!” His teeth came together with a click. “I love her, I love her, I love her! I love the very ground she walks on, the very air she breathes —God bless her, the darling! I love the very walls around her; and I have let her be driven out into the cold! A sudden uncontrollable rush of that emotion of which he had always held himself to be master surged up within him. broke its bounds, seized him in its ruthless grip, and whirled him along giddy, breathless, crazed. A sob strangled in his throat; the tears gushed into his eyes. He turned toward the portrait and flung out both arms, his face tortured, his soul on fire. It seemed as if the very strength of his desire must draw the living reality from the painted image into which had gone so much of the soul of the creator. “Carroll, Carroll, Carroll!” he cried, in a low, strained voice. The sound of it wakened his instinctive contempt of blind emotion, but passions long stifled had snapped their leash. With a savage oath at his weakness he tore himself from before the portrait and flung toward the window, threw it wide, and gripping the iron rail in both hands, leaned far out. Beneath him the city was shrouded in the first grey darkness which comes before Paris, who never sleeps, defies the night with her myriad lamps. Ogilvie looked down upon the sea of roofs; the sighing of the city arose to his ears. Far across the housetops Notre Dame reared her twin towers against a sombre, darkening sky. Faint, multi-col-oured lights began to spark and flash and twinkle against the swimming greyness which marked the Seine. From far away the tolling of chimes reached his ears faintly. Other bells took up the chorus, which swelled, then died away again. “Reveillon! Christmas Eve!” he cried in a muffled voice. “And she is out there—down below in that seething pit! She, all alone, penniless, friendless, with none to turn to Oh, my God!” Ho turned and began to pace the room furiously, his eyes half-blind, his teeth set, the breath hissing between them. His brain was a turmoil; his years of trained self-control were pow-

erless to haul it back to the present with sage counsels. His normal condition of clear, cool reasoning had for the moment abandoned him. Dimly, he realised that nothing could be done until the return of Forest. He was still pacing the floor, fighting for the mastery of his emotions when the artist entered. At the sight of his friend’s face he stepped back, startled. “Tom!” he cried. “Tom! For Heaven’s sake, what is it? What have you learned?” Ogilvie’s battle had passed its crisis. The trained veterans of his self-control were getting the lawless mob of emotions in hand again, and at the words of the artist they rallied and swept the field. The American pride which might lose its grip before itself, squared its shoulders in the presence of a witness, friend though he might be. The mayor stared at Forest, his face pale, quivering, and as he stared the colour slowly returned, and the strong, trained features assumed a hard smile. “Yes, Luce, I have learned something that has jolted me a bit, I confess.” “What, Tom, what?” “I love her,” said the mayor, a catch in his breath. “I love her. Luce; and like the fool that I am I have only just found it out!” “Tom! You mean that you love—■ Miss Winn?” “Love her!” The mayor’s terrific control slipped a trifle under the strain. “Love her! I am mad about her! She is my whole life. Luce, my body—soul —all there is to me!” The incoherent words came tumbling out pell-mell. “I love the very thought of her! Think of it. Luce! I love her so that I am nearly crazy; and loved her all of the time and never knew it! I’d have given bodv and soul and my hope of heaven to have saved her from this; and all of the time I was gaping around like a brainless fool and never knew it.” He nulled himself up abruptly and laughed. “Look, Luce!” He pointed to the easel at which the artist had not yet glanced. “There she is. Do vou wonder? Look at her! That is herself, in image and execution. The soul of <renius in the body of a—a woman. Did you ever see the like?” Forest stared fixedly at the picture. He did not answer, and the mayor, watching the fine, sensitive features of his friend, saw a quiver pass over them. Forest studied the portrait in utter silence. his head slightlv tipped to the side, his eyes narrowed. Soon he took two steps nearer the canvas, leaning forward slowly. Suddenly he gave a long expiration and turned to his friend, his face quite nale. and the mayor realised that he had been holding his own breath during the inspection. Both breathed deeply again. “Yon were right. Tom,” said Forest quietly. “She is a genius.” He looked back at the lovely head, for lovelier it became the longer that one looked at it. “No wonder she didn’t mind the dark and cold and the lack of a meal now and then. T think” —he looked again at the portrait and a wist.fulness crept into his voice and eyes—“that I would be willing to live in a cell and eat crusts and sleep in raw wool for the rest of mv life —to have reached such heights!” “Yes. Luce, so would T: so would anybody! Look at that face! Was there ever one like it? Can’t vou see her? Her very soul ? And to think. Luce, to think” —his voice struggled up —“that she is out there!” He seized the artist by the shoulder, and drawing him to the window, flung it open. The icy air cut in upon them, laden with the damp chill of coming snow. Underneath. Paris sparkled frostily, new lights pricking out here and there as the darkness deepened. “Look, Luce! Look down there! Listen ! Listen to it growl! Think of her. all alone in that cesspool, that seething maelstrom! A young girl—alone—penniless! Maybe she is walking the streets, hungry. Perhaps she is cold and tired and hungry, with wet feet and no place to go.” A note of frenzy strangled the mayor’s voice. “Why, Luce they even had her poor little gowns to sell! And think how it must have hurt her, the plucky darling, to have that” —he pointed to the portrait—“snatched away from her and offered for sale! Her very soul and body!” He stared at. the picture with eyes which saw nothing through their swim-

ming mist, then flung his powerful frame toward the window again. “Think of her being down there!” He threw his arm toward the Seine. “Perhaps some brute is annoying her! Perhaps—his voice choked—“perhaps she is standing on one of those bridges, staring down into the river, thinking that she has failed and wondering—if ” “Tom! Tom! Stop it! We will find her.” “Yes.” The mayor turned swiftly. “We will find her! We must find her! And we must find her to-night!” His voice grew steady and the frenzy left his face. He picked up his hat and coat. “Come on, Luce.” Ten o’clock found them still in the motor-cab, slowly patrolling the streets. They had returned at seven to the studio, but the concierge was gone and there was no one in his lodge. Then they had slipped into evening clothes and taken up the search again. The police had given them scant encouragement so far as finding the girl at once was concerned. It was Reveillon; many people were abroad; they could not say how she was dressed — voila! They had tasted no food since morning, but neither had thought of eating. 'The strain, the excitement, and the fasting told visibly on the artist, but loyal as he was, no hint of this escaped his lips. The mayor was in a state of controlled frenzy. All of the evening lie had sat in the cab, leaning rigidly forward, his eyes searching the hurrying crowd. “Isn’t it maddening, Luce?” be growled. “Isn’t it infuriating? To think that we may have been within ten paces of her a dozen times! Why haven’t we some sense—some instinct? What a helpless, groping animal a man is! Less than an animal! Her dog could have found her. if she’d had one. And I, who love her more than my own life, can’t! ” “You will find her yet,” answered Forest quietly. “Did she not send you her message when she was in trouble?

You saw her face, but you wouldn’t believe.” “You are right! I’ll never scoff again, Luce”—his voice altered its tone —“X have been thinking of that, and of what you told me about that friend of yours, that doctor, and the model. Do—do you think that we could find him ?” “I don’t know. I have been thinking of him, too. At least we can try. I know where he lives.” He gave an address to the chauffeur, who nodded and turned down a side street to emerge presently upon the Seine, which he crossed by the Pont Royale, holding straight across the Rue de Bac and turning up the Boulevard St. Germain. Opposite the Ecole de Medecine he dived into a narrow, squalid side street, threading a labyrinthine maze to draw up finally before an arched gateway which led into a dark courtyard. Through the gateway they saw a dim lamp burning in front of a low, ivy-covered door. “Here we are,” said Forest. “Do you know the way?” asked the mayor. “Yes. Come on. There’s a light in his apartment.” Forest pointed to a dull glow which came from the window overlooking the court. They crossed the court and started up the dark, deeply worn stairs. On the landing Forest paused. “Let me warn you, Tom,” he said, “this fellow- is a Pole, a Doctor Zabriski, and he is the worst kind of a as a doubt of his powers or anything at which he could take offence, such as a doubt of his pow’ers of anything like that. If you do he will not onlyrefuse to help us but insult us into the bargain.” “Very well,” said the mayor, grimly. “I’ll be careful.” In front of a door around the edges of which there came a glimmer of light the two paused and Forest rapped. “Who is that?” came a deep voice, in French. “Monsieur Forest and a friend.” There was a muttering within, a chair grated on the parquet, then felt-shod feet glided across the room, the bolt slid, and the door was thrown open. Framed against the softly lighted interior stood a tall, bulky man, a part of whose pale face gleamed from the middle of an enormous beard. “How do you do, Mr. Forest?” he said, in perfect English. “Come in if you please.” Forest, followed by the mayor, entered. “Doctor Zabriski,” Baid the artist, “permit me to introduce my friend, Mr. Ogilvie.” The Pole offered a large, sinewy hand. The mayor murmured something perfunctory and then glanced about the room. It wa,s large ( and luxuriously furnished, giving the impression of richness and taste combined with a certain cold asceticism of detail; one felt at once that it was the abode of a savant. The rugs were fine, the tapestries good, the colours in accord, as far as could be seen in the light of the dim reading-lamp. But the walls were lined with books, and a microscope stood where one would expect to find a narghile, and then, as the mayor’s eyes swept the place, he received a shock. On a low’ divan, in a shrouded corner of the room, lay a sleeping woman. One arm, bare to the elbow', fell within the zone of softened light, which shone on the pink finger-nails and the small half-closed palm. Even as the mayor discovered her presence the Polish doctor said quietly: “Do not mind her. We will not disturb her. She is not due to awaken until midnight.” “Delphine ?” asked Forest. “Yes. The girl whom I brought to your studio, if you remember. I have used her to conduct some experiments.” He glanced at Ogilvie. “Are you interested in psychology, Mr. Ogilvie?” “I do not know anything about it,” answered the mayor. “But I am in need of its aid, as you must have guessed.” His voice was curt, the atmosphere of the place repelled him. It produced a bristling along his spine which caused the counsel of Forest to go unheeded. “We have come for your advice, doctor.” said Forest. Tn a few nervous sentences he outlined what had occurred. When he had finished there was a scowl

upon the bearded face of the Pole. "Have you told me everything?” he asked harshly. "No,” interrupted the mayor. “He’s left out a lot, through consideration for me, I suppose.” “In that case,” said the Pole coldly, “I very much regret that I will be unable to offer any advice.” “All right. Sorry to have bothered you.” The mayor was on his feet, his clean-cut features hard as though carved in stone. “Please accept our apologies, Doctor Zabriski. Come on, Forest.” The Pole glanced at him quickly. "One moment, Mr. Ogilvie; don’t you see why I cannot help you?” “Of course. You want the whole story. Well, then, it is all summed up in three words. I love her.” "Sit down, Mr. Ogilvie,” said Zabriski. “Now 1 can be of aid to you.” The mayor reseated himself. For a moment the Pole regarded him curiously. Forest had sunk down into his chair, pale and silent. "Do you believe that I can help you, Mr. Ogilvie?” asked the Pole. “1 am prepared to.” “Good; that is all that one can ask.” He looked searchingly at the mayor, who returned the look unmoved. “You are a materialist, Mr. Ogilvie,” said the doctor. "Anything which logic cannot explain is repugnant to you. Also, you have no fear to try conclusions, as you think of it, with the will-power of any living man. In three-hundred and sixty-four days and twenty-three hours of the whole year you would be quite unhypnotisable; but the Christian year has yet an hour to run; and in that hour, due to your great love, which is a new-born emotion, Mr. Ogilvie, you have become the best and most susceptible of subjects.” "Good!” growled the mayor. "So much so, Mr. Ogilvie, that I doubt if there is any necessity for hypnotising you at all.” The Pole regarded him closely, and the mayor met the large, brilliant eyes steadfastly. Suddenly the Pole sprang to his feet. “You are clairvoyant, my friend—just at this moment. There is no need of a trance. Shut your eyes!” The mayor did so. Do you see anything? Have you any impression?” “No.” “Bon! Come with me.” The doctor sprang to his feet. Without a glance at Forest, who had fallen back in his chair pale and faint, Ogilvie followed. At the foot of the couch upon which lay the sleeping woman the doctor drew back some portieres, disclosing a dark interior. “Enter, if you please,” he said. The mayor did so. “Before we proceed,” said the doctor, “1 wish to ask you if you have any revulsion at the thought of temporarily losing entire personal control of your faculties ?” “No!” snarled the mayor savagely. "Hypnotize me. Lead out my mind and put it through its tricks, if you like. Do what you please—l don’t give a damn—-if you can find her for me!” “Bon! We will find her; never fear,” said the doctor softly. He let the portieres fall, then struck a match and held it to a tiny lamp, hidden in a niche. The little flame flared up; the doctor reached for some dark object, drew it aside, and instantly the room was flooded in a soft, yet brilliant light, all of which was centred in one shimmering, scintillating object. “Have you ever looked into the crystal globe, Mr. Ogilvie?” asked the Pole. “No.” “Good. Then you will surely see that which will help you. Sit on that stool in front of you, Mr. Ogilvie, and—so—now rest your elbows upon the table. Relax, my friend, relax. There, that is good, that is admirable. Are you quite at your ease ?” “Quite.” “Good. Now, Mr. Ogilvie, look intently into the very centre, the core of the globe. You will not have to look long.” His low, modulated voice deepened. “Relax, Mr. Ogilvie, relax. Think of anything that you like, your thoughts will come back to the main issue. Look steadily, that is all, look steadily.” The soft voice ceased. “It is getting cloudy,” muttered the mayor presently. “That is right. Look, keep on looking.” “Now—it—is ” The mayor pitched

forward, lie gripped the table with both hands. His eyes protruded. His voice burst out harshly. "Carroll! There she is. There! Sitting at a table —with —with” —his voice grew shrill—"with that man, that—the Marquis de Montbrison.” He aroused himself. “Sit still!” said the Pole sharply. “Eh —what —with that rounder —what The mayor’s voice rose fiercely; his knees stiffened. “Don’t rise! Keep on looking. Look! Look!” “Look?” The mayor sprang to his feet. “What’s the use of looking at things like that?” He flung back the portieres and strode out into the other room. “Come on, Luce,” he said. “Let’s go.” The Pole was at his heels. Forest, very white, looked up at the two as they entered. The mayor’s face was white also, but his eyes were like two shimmering jewels. “You did not follow my instructions!” snapped the doctor. “You got up! You did not do as I ordered you!” “Why should 1?” said the mayor contemptuously. “Do you know what 1 saw?” “What did you see, Tom?” asked Forest feebly. “Oh, nothing of any value.” The mayor’s voice clicked. “I saw Miss Winn, of course, but as soon as I got the whole picture I understood. At first it gave me a jolt, naturally, but the whole thing is made out of the same stuff as dreams; where you dream some horrible repugnant thing that your waking mind would never permit for a second—a sort of passive perversity.” “Well, but what?” “Oh, what’s the use of discussing it? If you must know, I raw Carroll Winn, dressed in a gorgeous sort of gown, sitting at a table in a cafe, a glass of champagne in front of her, and’ that ’the Marquis de Montbrison opposite. It was just a fool dream.” “Indeed?” said the Pole. “Then you mean to insinuate that my revelation, or your own revelation under my suggestion, was nothing more than fantasy?” “Well, what else could it be?” The mayor turned to the man in rising anger. “I come to you looking for a poorly clad, homeless, friendless girl, wandering about the streets of Paris, and you show me the very woman, only tricked out in lace and satin, sitting at a table in what appears to be a stylish cafe opposite a man in evening dress who is known to be the most dissolute man in Paris!” The Pole’s eyes flashed’. His moustache was drawn up, baring his white teeth. His pallid face was the incarnation of ungovernable fury. “You fool!” he snarled, thrusting his bearded chin toward the mayor. “You fool from out of the West! When you have become a little more civilized you will learn something!” The mayor’s head dropped a trifle between his broad shoulders. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at the angry man before him. The Pole topped him by half a head, but in his rage he had stopped and thrust out his chin, so that the point of his beard was almost in the mayor’s faee. “Eh, what’s that?” asked Ogilvie, his voice carrying a soft songlike lilt. “What

is that you say, doctor?” "I say that when you kuow Paris a little belter, aud womau a great deal better, Mr. Ogilvie," meered the doctor, "you will learu that it is uo such great distance for a woman to travel from rags to satin! Nor is it far from Montmartre to Maxim's; and”—his sneer grew malicious —"from Maxim’s to—to the morgue!” The mayor leaued forward, his eyes mere slits. A strangling noise gurgled in his throat. “You liar!” he suarled. His arm shot out from his shoulder; there was a solid impact, a crash, and the spiritualist was down, senseless, across his rich, Turkish rug. The mayor leaned over him, his eyes blazing, his fists still clenched. "Hope to God I’ve killed the swine!” he snarled. “But 1 haven’t. He’s hypnotized now, damn him i’• "Tom! Tom! ” “Oh, come on, Luce. Your friend’s a humbug! He’s worse; he’s a liar! Come on!” lie seized the artist by the shoulder, aud they stumbled gropingly down the stairs and across the silent court. Outside the gate the motor-cab was waiting. The mayor wrenched open the door and plunged in, then sank back upon the seat, knawing his nails. "From Montmartre to Maxim’s; from Maxim’s to—to the morgue!” he muttered. “Where now, Tom?” asked Forest faintly. The mayor was still muttering. “From Montmartre to Maxim’s—eh—what?” he laughed, then thrust his head through the window. “To Maxim’s,” he ordered. “After that —the morgue!” CHAPTER IV. lhe mayor did not speak again as the motor-cab picked its way swiftly through the narrow, dim-lit streets, and Forest, shocked to the core of his sensitive nature by the savage outbursts of his friend, was also silent. Neither had spoken up to the time that they reached the Place de la Concorde and headed across the blazing square for the point where the Rue Royale debouched into it. The night had grown very cold with the raw, searching humidity peculiar to winter Paris, and a few snowflakes were swirling through the air. As they drew up in front of the famous cafe the mayor spoke for the first time since giving the address to the driver. “It was here that we were to meet Chew and Hammersmith, wasn’t it. Luce ?” Forest roused himself. “Yes, Tom; that’s so. I had forgotten all about it.” “Funny how the threads of fate interweave,” observed the mayor. “There really is no sense in looking here for Carroll.” He used the girl’s Christian name unconsciously. “But we ought to stop and tell them that we can’t stay. Besides, a bite to eat will do us no harm. Forgive me, old chap; I’d forgotten that we had fasted so long. Why didn’t you speak of it?” “Oh, it’s nothing, Tom. I hadn’t thought of it myself.”

The cab stopped and a porter flung open the door. •‘There is no place, gentlemen, unless you are to join friends who have a table,” he began. The mayor, followed by Forest, strode on unheeding, and pushed through the revolving doors. "Mr Hammersmith,” said Forest to the head waiter, almost shouting to make his voice heard above the din, for the gaiety was at its height. Even as he spoke he caught sight of Hammersmith beckoning from the extreme end of the room. "There they are, Tom,” he said. “Go ahead; I’ll join you.” The mayor turned to a waiter. "Do you know Monsieur De Montbrison 1” he asked. “Oui, M‘sieu’. M’sieu’ le Marquis was here this evening, but as there was no place he went away.” “Was he alone!” “1 could not say. Merci, m’sieu’.” The mayor turned and followed Forest, who was waiting for some people to move their chairs before he could pass, so closely was the room packed. The f uu had grown to an uproar; the atmosphere of the place was stifling. Scent, tobacco smoke, the fumes of champagne, and the reek of steaming plats mingled to the point of suffocation. Everybody was laughing and shouting; the waiters •had just distributed! the favours, and wonderful coiffures were capped with little hoods, while the men wore ridiculous papier-mache imitations of battered hats. Beautifully-gowned women, with the Hushed faces of bacchantes, were holding shrieking 'conversations with their escorts, while the waiters, bearing wines and dishes, slipped like ferrets through the crowd. As the mayor stood by the door, his hat still on his head, and his eyes staring curiously about, a cry went up from a table near by. “Chapeau! Chapeau! Chapeau!” bawled a man. Others, laughing, took up the shout. “Chapeau! Chapeau! Cliape-a-u-au!” “They don’t like your hat, Tom,” said Forest, smiling. The mayor raised his hand to remove it but as he did so a papier-mache rabbit came flying from somewhere, ptruck the hat squarely, and sent it spinning across a table, where it capsized a glass of champagne into the lap of a young man. Ogilvie looked startled; the young man laughed and handed him his hat. The mayor glanced about, colouring. Everybody was laughing, and from a few there came an ironic: “Merci, m’sieu’!” Ogilvie laughed and followed Forest, who was worming his way between the backs of ehairs in an effort to reach Hammersmith’s table. i .“You chaps are late,” grumbled the 'host. "You’ve missed a rattling good supper.” “I am very sorry,'’ said the mayor. "We have had a busy evening.” He seated himself, and, leaning across the table, said to Chew and Hammersmith: “You remember the lady who was in the elevator with me the day of my arrival ? Well, on getting back to the studio to-day we discovered that her rent had been in arrears for some weeks and that the concierge had seized her studies and sold her out." “The swine!” cried Chew indignantly. “What did you do to him this time, Ogilvie?” asked Hammersmith. “Got him fired—but that isn’t the point. The girl has been driven out of her apartment into the streets.” The mayor’s face hardened. “And Forest and I have been looking for her all of the evening.” "Good for you!” said Hammersmith. “We will all look for her.” “Do you mean to say,” cried Chew, “that the poor girl is out in the streets of Paris, now, with no money and no place to go ?” His round, genial face wore a look of horror. “That’s what we fear,” said the mayor. “In that case,” said Hammersmith, quietly, “this party may be considered officially over. Let’s each take a separate auto-cab and rake the whole town. The chances of finding her are small, but ” “Oh, I don’t know,” said Chew. “Paris, after all, is not so big. You never can do anything here without running into somebody.” “That you don’t want to s ” said Hammersmith, laughing. “Not exactly. That you don’t want to have see you! ” All four laughed. The mayor looked from one to the other of the two with kindling eyes. The ready willingness to sacrifice their evening in the faint hope of relieving the distress of their fellow countrywoman surprised and touched him. He wondered, and felt

ashamed at having received the impression of their being lacking in staunch Americanism. As he started to speak his voice was downed in a wild burst of applause from directly behind him. A table had been removed, and a dancer had stepped out into the vacant space and commenced a pas seul. The banqueters crowded in upon all sides, jamming the whole space, so that it was impossible to move, scarcely possible to breathe. Hammersmith arose to his feet to look, and Chew, who was a short man, climbed upon his ehair. "Stand up on your chair, Ogilvie,” said he. "It’s not half bad. She’s pretty.” “Don’t you know her ?” asked Hammersmith, in surprise. "It’s ‘La Deliria.’ Get on your chair, Ogilvie; she’s worth seeing.” The mayor smiled and obeyed. But, once up, instead of looking at the famous dancer, some influence appeared to draw his eyes to the other end of the room. Over the bobbing heads of the crowd, over the low-hung haze of tobacco smoke, he looked toward a table placed beside the door. A woman was sitting there alone, facing him, but for a moment he was unable to see ner face, as it was bent over the menu which was lying on the table. Ogilvie noticed that she was richly gowned; in fact, the gown itself, either in its shade or style, seemed oddly familiar. He wondered where it was that he had seen the pliant figure, that gown, and as he was watching in a strange state of excitement for the woman to raise her face, a tall, handsome man, who had been talking to the head waiter, walked to the table, spoke to the woman, then turned toward the crowd that was watching the dancer. At the same moment the woman looked up, as though startled, and the next instant the mayor was looking into the questioning face of Carroll Winn. The mayor lurched backward, nearly capsizing a chair. Chew, who was beside him, threw out a rescuing arm. “Look out, old chap,” he said, laughing. “Don’t fall into the salad.” The mayor stepped unsteadily to the floor. Chew glanced at him and laughed. "Step on the edge of your chair? lie asked; then, noting the pallor of Ogilvie s face, his own sobered. “Feel oauiy ? Here, sit down.” "No, no.” The mayor was breathing hard. "She’s over there!” he muttered. "She! Who?” asked Forest quickly. “Carroll Winn —wait here!' the mayor pushed into the crowd; then, as he elbowed and shoved against the closepacked mob of laughing people, it recurred to him that tne girl had appeared to be richly dressed, and that she wore a hat with a trailing plume. "It’s that trickster, with his devilish suggestions!” he muttered savagely to himself. “1 don’t believe that I saw her at all. It’s a trick of my brain, damn him!” he told himself, but nevertheless he struggled on. The jam was dense, and the people, many of whom were women, crowding in to watch the dancer, would not give way. Ogilvie’s curt requests for a passage to the door were drowned in the snouts of laughter and clamorous bravas which greeted each fantastic step. Before he had gained ten feet tne mayor found himself wedged fast, unable to move in any direction without the use of violence. He could not see above the heads of the crowd; he could see nothing, in fact, but the flushed, laughing faces about him and the ceiling over his head, and there he was forced to stop, fuming and frenzied, until the dance had finished and the cheering spectators began to scatter back to their tables. Several minutes had elapsed when he reached the other end of the room. The table at which he had seen the girl was vacant, and as he stood staring about blankly, a familiar voice raised in excited interrogation reached his ear. He looked behind nim and discovered the .Marquis De Montbrison talking to the door-man. "But you tell me that madame went out while I was watching the dance?” cried De Montbrison excitedly. "Oui, monsieur. Madame went out when the dance was but half-over.’ “But it is incredible!” snarled the marquis. “Why then should she go out? Did she appear to be ill?” “Madame was very white,” replied the man. “Perhaps she may have been overcome by the smoke and the closeness of the air.” “But you are quite sure that it was madame !” The mayor waited no longer. Pushing through the door, he went into the street, coatless and hatless as he was. A knot

of cab-drivers and chauffeurs were standing on the sidewalk. “Here is a louis,” said Ogilvie sharply. "Did any of you see a lady come out a minute or two ago!” “Yes, sir,” said an alert voice in English. A chauffeur stepped forward. “There was a lydy as came out two minutes ago, sir.” “Where did she go?” The chauffeur pointed toward the Place de la Concorde. “That wy, sir.” “Vvalking?” “Y’es, sir; she was walkin’ a bit rapid, sir.” “All right; here you are.” The mayor handed the man the coin and hurried to the corner.

The snow was whirling thickly and the air was intensely cold and raw. Ogilvie’s eyes swept the Place; the snow blew into his face and the chill dampness gripped him like a knife, overheated as he was from the steaming cafe. Across the street an agent looked curiously at the coatless, hatless figure in evening clothes, but the mayor did not see the man, who was in the shadow of the wall. On the Place the lights were twinkling, blurred through the mist of eddying flakes. It had grown so cold that, despite the dampness, a fine, white veil was spreading over the surface of the square. Dim figures were flitting this way and that. “Which way?” he muttered. For a

second he hesitated, and as he did so the words of the Pole recurred to his mind: "From Montmartre to Maxim’s -— from Maxim’s to toe morgue. He had been to Montmartre; he had just left Maxim’s; was it now to be—the morgue? A chill struck tnrough him; then, without knowing or thinking why, he hurried across the Place, heading toward the Pont de la Concorde. Almost across he saw, far ahead, the figure of a woman which passed beneath an arelight and turned toward the bridge. In front of him swirled the Seine, oxack, cold, sinister. The mayor broke into a run; as he reached the bridge the woman was half-way across, and he saw her white face flash as she turned in his direction. He was running lightly like the athlete that he was, for something seemed to tell him that the woman was Carroll. “Paris can’t get her from me now!” he muttered, as the distance lessened; and even with the thought the woman turned sharply toward the parapet of the bridge, leaned over it, and looked down into the black, swirling water. Ogilvie knew that it was she. The long, gliding step, the swing of the lithe figure told him uiat it could be none other than Carroll Winn. Close behind her he stopped; then, as he stepped to her side, breathing rapidly from his run, her low, gurgling laugh reached him. She did not move, but stood still, looking down into the stream, with the fine snow’ powdering her drooping shoulders. Ogilvie stepped to her side. His breath still came gaspingly. “What made you run away?” he asked gently. “I have been looking for you all the evening.” “Why did you do that, Mr. Ogilvie?” answered Carroll, staring into the stream. “You might have waited, Miss Winn.” “For what, Mr. Ogilvie?” “For my return from Fontainebleau. You know that I would never have permitted such a thing. At least, you might have left some message telling me that you were not in actual distress — and immediate want.” “oh, but I was,” answered the girl in her low, rich voice. “I left the studio W’ith nothing but what I have on. They could not seize the clothes I wore, so I naturally saved the very best.” She laughed. “I had not a franc—not a sou.” “Then, don’t you think,” said the mayor slowly, “that my offer to help you deserved a little better treatment?” Carroll did not answer. The mayor leaned across the parapet beside her, and together they stared down into the black, seething water. To Ogilvie there was no sense of strangeness in the situation. That he was leaning across the parapet of a bridge staring down into the Seine at midnight of Christmas Eve, hatless, coatless, and with the snow sifting into his shirt-bosom while lie talked to a girl whom he had seen for the first time less than a week before —it was all most natural. Even a rapidly growing sense of physical ill, of ebbing strength, as the icy wind cut through his light evening clothes, failed to rouse him to any personal realisation of his condition. “You should have waited until after the sale,” he said. “It would have saved a great deal of—of unhappiness.” “That was what I tried to save myself, Mr. Ogilvie.” Carroll laughed. “You see, there was not much else that 1 could save. But I don’t think that I could have endured seeing the things that 1 had so worked for”—her voice faltered—“sold off to those jackals for so many sous.” “What had become of your faith in yourself? In your genius?” “It was —all—gone.” “Then, would you have eoine to me if I had been there?” Carroll’s voice was almost inaudible. “Yes.” “Of course you would; and you would have done so in any case.” The mayor straightened up and tried to speak briskly, but even as he begin a flaw of the wind cut him to the bone and carried with it so severe a stab of pain that it stifled his breath. For an instant the river seemed to boil up into his face; his head reeled, then the faintness passed, but he had lost the thread of his thought. “I meant to go back after the sale.” said Carrol), "but while I was wandering about T met De Montbrison. He is the artist for whom I posed as Tiphaine.” “And then you went to Maxim's? Why

Maxim’s?” There was no hint of sharpness in the mayor's voice; the gentleness of tone was, if anything, increased. "I did not know that he was taking me there; in fact, I did not know that it was Maxim’s until I saw the name upon the menu. All of the restaurants are gay Reveillon night. Of course, 1 should not have gone with him at all, knowing the sort of a man that he is, but ” Carroll’s voice faded away. The mayor waited, his arms folded tightly across his chest, protecting it instinctively against the icy blast and the erushing pain which seemed to come from without. “Yes,” said Carroll, “it was wrong of me, of course. But, you see, Mr. Ogilvie, 1 was— —” “What?” asked the mayor gently. “I was—hungry!” The low voice faltered. “Hungry!” The mayor started upright, aud as he did so the icy chill gripped him, while with it came so fierce a stab of pain that he caught his breath with a gasp. "You were hungry!” “Yes, Mr. Ogilvie; and he knew that I would not have gone there if I had known. Still, I think that if 1 had told him why 1 went with him at all he would not have taken me there; but, you see. ne found me in an evening gown, and alone, and Frenchmen don’t look at these things as we do, so that the mere fact of my consenting to go with him at all ” Carroll fell silent again. “Then what made you run away?” asked the mayor softly, and fighting for his breath. “Because you discovered where you were?” Carroll appeared to find it hard to answer. “Why?” the mayor repeated “Then, if you must know, it was — pride, I suppose. I looked up and — and saw you, and I couldn’t bear the thought of having you see me there and not understanding!” “I could not understand.” “But what did you think?” “I don’t think that I thought much about that part of it,” answered the mayor slowly. “I was too anxious to tell you that things were not as bad as you thought, and that you had not failed, and that your work had been appreciated by the most merciless of all critics, the dealers, and that your portrait was safe, as I had bought it myself.” “What? What is all that? What are you talking about, Mr. Ogilvie?” Carroll laid both hands upon the rim of the parapet and thrust herself upright, and then for the first time during their talk she looked at the mayor and saw that he was standing beside her coatless and hatless and utterly unprotected against the frozen breath of the river. “Mr. Ogilvie!” she cried, and there was a note of distress in her deep voice which thrilled the mayor, despite his rapidly increasing malaise. “How can you do such a thing! It is mad—wicked of you! And you have been standing here all of this time, so! And coming from that steaming oven!” She leaned toward the mayor, her great eyes glowing into his and her odd, leopardess’ face drawn with anger — or some emotion. “Are you quite mad, Mr. Ogilvie?” “I—l—oh, it’s nothing. I forgot,” mumbled the mayor in an odd voice of boyish shamefacedness. He tried to treat the matter as a joke. “The air is a bit fresh after Maxim’s,” he began in a jocular tone which died upon his lips, for Carroll was not listening. She was swaying to this side and that, searching the white, spectral light-dimmed darkness. “Here comes a cab,” she said. “Come! You are wickedly imprudent or don’t know the Paris climate. You are taking your life in your hands.” “But I want to tell you about your “Hush, please. Coeher! lei! lei! Cocher la!” A solitary eab came wandering out of tne swimming mist and headed for the bridge. The mayor watched it with a dull gaze. “Get in, Mr. Ogilvie!” It was Carroll who threw open the door. The mayor stared, then roused himself. “That’s so,” he said. “We might as well go home. Carroll shrank back. “Home, Mr. Ogilvie?” “Yes. Your place has not lieen touched; your things were never put up for sale. Get in, please, and I’ll tell you as we drive along.” He gave the driver the address and followed Carroll into the cab. Again the pain seized him and for a moment

he could not speak. The chills were* sharper and of longer duration now, aud» during the paroxysms he fought for hisf. breath. Afterwards, the crushing paint made him feel faint, but oddly the mo jc mem it had passed his mind ignored it.* Carroll’s eyes were on him seareh-Bs-ingly. They misSed nothing even in the® murk. ® "Oh, but you are chilled,” she cried,yy and slipped out of her cloak. "YouK must let me wrap this about you.” Si “xionsense; put that on again.” & “You shall do as I tell you! Put® down your hands—there—sit still, Mr.®| (fgilvie.” K; "But—but ” The mayor's teeth® clenched and the words failed him. EachC instant the deadly congestion was tight-g--ening its hold. The long fast, the ner-K vous strain, the hot cafe, his over-heatedy condition, and then the icy draft from® the Seine had broken down the weak-E ened defences of his rugged strength. “But let me tell you about your pic-K ture,” he began lifelessly, and without® even wondering at the sudden weakness® of will which permitted of his sittingjp passively while the girl wrapped heraß cloak about his neck and shoulders, "lafe bought it myself, you know.” -~ “Oh, that was good of you; but mver® mind the portrait, Mr. Ogilvie, never® mind anything; don’t talk; it hurts you® to. I can tell by the sound of yourß voice.” She dropped the window and® thrust out her head. “Driver, hurry,® hurry, and you will be paid double.”® Then she slammed the window shut® again. y “But I want to tell you,” muttered the® mayor. “And, anyway, 1 feel rather® badly, somehow, as if I were going tojS faint or do something equally foolish,® and I want to be sure that you are go-jS ing to be all right. 1 seem to haveg} caught a chill—and it's taken theE strength out of me. Now, will you’, please not argue”—the mayor was® breathing in gasps—“and do as 1 say?”W “Oh, yes—yes —but please don’t try to •;. talk.” . A “But 1 must tell you.” The mayor spoke through his clenched teeth. “You J think that you have failed, but—it—is 63 not so. A Jew picture-dealer bid a—a '• thousand—francs”—the words came with aifficulty—“for your portrait, just as it stood, and I—bid—eleven hundred—and —got it.” He tugged out his pocketbook. “The huissier has the money, of course—but you are to take what you need from me, and tiren you can pay — pay me back after you have seen him. I nderstand?” Carroll took the pocketbook from his hand. “Yes, yes, 1 will,” she said soothingly. “I will do anything that you say if only you will rest and not try to talk." A faintness seized the mayor; the power to fight it seemed utterly lacking, and he leaned back, resting his head against the shabby upholstering of the eab. Carroll drew the cloak more tightly about his throat and closer to him, her great eyes fastened on his face. Presently the cab came to a stop. The girl slipped out and paid the driver, taking the money from the mayor’s wallet. “Come, Mr. Ogilvie,” she said. The mayor lurched out and followed her blindly up the four flights of stairs, unlocked the studio door, and entered. Forest’s servant had left a fire of briquettes on the hearth, but they had smouldered low and the place was cold. “You—will find everything as you — as you left it, Miss Winn,” gasped the mayor. "Thank you so much—good night.” He stumbled gropingly toward the divan. “Have you a match?” asked Carroll. "There’s electricity,” he muttered. "Over by the door.” He handeu her his silver match-case, then lurched across to the divan and flung himself upon it, muttering some protest. Carroll struck a match, then switched on the electric light, for the building was a modern one. The mayor lay upon the divan, nioixonless. Carroll covered him with a heavy steamer-rug, then entered one of the bedrooms, tore the blankets and coverlet from the bed. and spread them over him. She was building up the dying fire when Ogilvie, rousing from his faintness, turned and looked at her “Really, Miss Winn.” he said, in a gasping voice, "1 can't have you doing this. I'm horribly ashamed of myself: nothing of this sort ever happened to me before —and it's awfully good of you but you really shouldn't stay here, you know—it isn’t right. It isn’t ” Carroll, with her long, sliding step,

reached his side aud pushed him geutiy back upon the pillows. there was a light in her amber-coloured eyes which, weakened as he was, quite overawed the mayor. "Lae down, Mr. Ogilvie,” she said, in her purring voice. "Die down and do not speak. lou are very ill, and 1 lam going to get you warm and dry and something hot to drink; and after that we will think about the rest of it. ’ She laid her hand on his wrist, thrust his arm back under the pile of wraps which he had partly flung aside, and pressed iiim down among the pillows. "Be good, please, aud do as 1 say. Please, Mr. Ogilvie.” Forest, returning later, worn and hag Igard and anxious, found a very sick man UyiMg on the divan and a woman sitting fat Ins head, and there was a look in her Igreat, amber-coloured eyes such as the ■ artist had dreamed of but never seen on I the face of any woman. I "Miss Winn!” he cried. "What is it? I What has happened?" The girl laid her linger to her lips, but the caution was unnecessary . Stilled in the grip of the enemy, the may or lay gasping with quick, shallow breaths and a face upon which the deathly pallor had given way to the flush of a mounting fever. I "I do not know, Mr. Forest," she whisIpered, rising. "He overtook me on the I bridge and stood there in the wind | talking, and I was looking into the I river, and it was a long time before 1 I noticed that he was in thin evening clothes with no hat or coat. Then, on the way home, he was seized with a chill. Can pneumonia come so quicklv. Mr. Forest? ’ "1 don’t know. He was not well last night, nor this morning, and he has had a hard day. No doubt this has precipitated things. At any rate we must have a doctor at once." He walked to the may or and stood for a moment contemplating the fine, flushed ■ features of the unconscious man. 1 Then he turned and looked steadilv sat the girl. | Carroll was standing by the hearth gleaning toward him with her wide, questioning gaze, dark lashes far apart, chin thrust forward, mouth open, and both rows of white teeth half-visible behind the red lips. Forest looked at her with a quick rush of pity, then glanced from her face to that of the portrait which was on the easel under the soft glow of a shaded light. Artist that he was. even the crisis would not cloud his wonder at the likeness of the two, for at that moment the warm, live, questioning expression was identical upon the pictured face and the living one. And then at onee the thought rushed upon him that there was a difference, a marvellous difference, so great a difference that the two were suddenly unlike - and looking closer Forest found it in the eyes. In the same instant he understood the cause, and Carroll, her questioning face still turned to his, read the newfound knowledge on the sensitive features, and a wave of colour turned her pale face rosy to the ears. Forest smiled. “You love him, don’t you?” he said. With her swift, gliding step Carroll reached the divan, flung her arms across it, buried her face in the rugs which covered the motionless body of the mayor. Her voice, low, thrilling, muffled, reach ed the ears of the artist like the cry of some wild creature. “I adore him!” she answered. Forest drew a chaise longue to the fire and motioned to Carroll to take it. Three day’s of nursing and the ensuing fatigue had established a mutual understanding. “It is very good of you to let me be nurse,” said the girl, her eyes heavy with weariness. “You have the right,” answered the artist. “Because I love him?" The dark lashes lifted. "That is one reason.” “And the other?” The artist did not reply’. “Because he was so kind to me?” Tlu deep voice held a tremor, and Forest, listening, wondered what had made him think that she was feline, catlike, reticent. Then he looked at her face and wondered even more. There was no trace of the flat, blinking stare with which he had associated it. The deep amber eyes glowed moist and humid and fearsomely questioning. “That is another good reason,” he said.

“There is still more?” “Yes; a lot more.” “What, then?” There was the wide, questioning look of the portrait, but now the cheeks were pale and the eyes almost frightened. “Don’t you really know?” Carroll turned away her face. “You mean, of course, that he took an interest in me, that he tried to save me, that —that his big, manly, generous American heart could not endure the thought of my being out there alone in those awful streets. That is what you mean, Mr. Forest, is it not?” “That is part of it. All of that is true, also.” Forest stared into the fire. ‘Well, then, Mr. Forest?” “Eh?” “Then you mean that there is more? You don’t look cruel, Mr. Forest?” “Yes. There is more; and I’m not cruel; but I don’t know that I have the right to ” “To what, Mr. Forest?” “To tell you the rest.” Carroll’s face grew a shade paler. “Oh, but I can guess it, Mr. Forest. He believes that I am a genius because I told him so.” She almost laughed. “And he thinks that geniuses should be protected, and in this particular case, in my case, you see, he has assumed that his role is that of protector. That is it, Mr. Forest, is it not?” “You are getting warm.” “What, Mr. Forest?” “Did you never play ‘find the handkerchief?’ You are betting closer and closer.” “To what?” “The whole truth.” Carroll turned paler and her eyes grew larger; and Forest, looking at her, felt poignant qualms. He lowered his voice. “Tell me,” he said, “do you love him very much?” Carroll caught her breath, and the dark lashes fluttered down. “If I did not. Mr. Forest, do you think that I would be so free in telling of it in this shameless way and without any”

—her voice dropped—“hope of his returning it?” “Love, worthy of the name,” said Forest, turning away to hide a smile, “asks no return.” “Of course not, Mr. Forest, but it doesn’t have to acknowledge itself, either.” Forest looked at her and nodded. “The doctor says,” he observed presently, “that pneumonia is what is called a ‘crisis disease,’ and that the crisis is passed. He says that he is out of danger, and that his temperature has dropped; but don’t you think it about time that he —eh —began to notice things a bit?” “He will as soon as he wakes, Mr. Forest. You see, he’s been semi-deliri-ous; but now he is sleeping.” She leaned back in her chair and stared into the fire with humid, yellow eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and her breath was coming quickly. Forest watched her closely. “Then you’re no longer anxious?” he asked. “Of course I am anxious, Mr. Forest.” Carroll turned and looked at him. “But I am no longer alarmed.” “Not a bit?” “No. He will get well now.” “How do you know?” “How? That would be hard to tell.” Carroll looked at him with the questioning look which he had learned to wait for. “In the same way that I knew that it was he that night at Maxin’s, even before I looked up and saw his face over the heads of tire crowd. Once before while sitting there with De Montbrison, earlier in the evening, I had the same feeling that he was looking at me; and even after I had looked around I felt sure that he was there. Now, I know that he will get well, because, well” —a puzzled look crossed her beautiful face, for beautiful it had become even to the critical eyes-of the artist—“because, if he were not going to get well I would know that! Don’t you understand, Mr. Forest ?” “No,” said Forest, slowly. “ 1 coutd hardly be expected to, could I? But I see what you mean.” Carroll stared into the fire without answering. Presently she Iregan to make a soft, warm little noise in her throat, hardly a hum, more of a purr, in fact.

She stretched towards the blaze, and, half-twisting her lithe body in her chair, turned her shoulders and rested her cheek on her hand. Her dark lashes swept down. There had been no sleep for eithc«r of them the night before. Forest watched her through lowered lids. “ Cats,” he said softly to himself, “never do weep and shed tears when they are hurt; neither do they dance and sing when their hearts are gay. But Ido not think that she is a cat, for all of her wide forehead and white teeth and yellow, blinky eyes. No, she is not a cat—but, just the same, after they are married, I do not envy the woman whose eyes linger too long on the mayor. Most of her is woman, but there is some eat, too, I guess.” His eyes clung to her and noted the lithe twist of her body and the small, strong hand hooked pawlike over the arm of the chair. “ 1 think so,” he muttered, closing his tired eyes. “ Carroll,” said a weak voice from the adjoining room. Forest awakened with a start. Beside him, Carroll was on her feet, her eyes flaming tears flashing on her cheeks. Her red lips were parted and her breath came quickly’. “ Carroll 1 ” the weak voice repeated. “ Carroll! ” There must have been some cat in her to have reached the bed so quickly and noiselessly and without any impression of haste. As Forest, not meaning to spy, looked over his shoulder and through the open door. Carroll was on her knees beside the bed, and her arms had gathered the mayor to her young bosom and his hands were clasped about her pliant shoulders, drawing her tear-stained face to his. Then Forest, his soul exalted and his heart abashed, got up and walked slowly into the other room. “Genius,” he observed, softly to himself, “is not incompatible with love. When both are shed upon the. one person, he has tasted of the fulness of life, nor does anything else much matter—but it is a bit rough on South Fork 1” And he tried to shut his ears to the sounds which came from the sick room.