text:
Her Masterpiece

R. LUCIAN FOREST leaned forward among the cushions of his divan and drew out his watch.

“I am very sorry to learn that I am a liar,” he observed. “I promised my friend Ogilvie to meet him at the Gare St. Lazare on his arrival from Cherbourg. It is now too late. However, he knows my address, and there are a great many cabs.” He threw a cushion at a black-eyed girl who was poking the fire. “Encore du thé, Zi-zi!”

The pillow missed the model and went into the blaze.

“Oh, la-la-la!” cried the girl. She rescued the pillow, but too late; its beauty was marred forever.

“Leave it where it is,” said Forest, in French. “It is old and musty and feeds to be sterilized; besides, the fire is low.”

A short young man with a pleasant face and very blond hair handed his host a cup of tea. This was Mr. Chew, who was studying architecture for two reasons; first, because if he had not done so he would have been requested to enter his father's banking-house in New York; secondly, he was very fond of architecture.

“Who did you say your friend was, Lucian?”

“Tom Ogilvie, of Indiana. We roomed together at college. Afterward he took a technical course, and then went home to carry on his father's business of building wagons. Tom decided that there was more money in automobiles, so he is building them instead.”

“He is right,” said a slim young man with a wonderful English accent. “He can get more for an automobile than he could for a wagon, and I think that they use the same machinery over there to make them. The one I went to the Vanderbilt Race in when I was over last year was made in an alarm-clock factory. The only part that went was the alarm, and they had forgotten to put the bell on that. What else is your friend Ogilvie? To be a manufacturer of American cars is not enough.”

“Stop rapping American cars. Besides that, he was my roommate at college, and also he is the mayor of South Fork.”

“Where is that?”

“Indiana, of, course. It is a very large and thriving place, and Ogilvie tells me that it has more miles of trolley-track than Paris.”

“Zut!” cried the model angrily. “I am going home. You make me tired with your jabber! Why don't you speak some language?”

“What a lovely place it must be,” said the architect. “Can't you see it? A cobweb of trolley-tracks winding between wagon factories, flanked by ash-can jungles, muddy drains, and big chimneys, then a fashionable district with houses that would make your blood run cold!”

He reached for Zi-Zi, pulled her onto his knee, and shoved a tea-cake into her red mouth,

“What is Mr. Ogilvie doing over here, if he is mayor?”

“He has just been elected; doesn't assume his official duties until autumn. You see, Ogilvie has large ideas of civic responsibility. He wrote me that he wanted to study the municipal government of Paris to see if he can get any new ideas which might prove of benefit to South Fork.”

“All of you vulgar working people come over here with the same old bluff,” observed Mr. Hammersmith, in his somewhat labored accent. “If it isn't art or architecture or music it's politics or sociology or to write a book. Why aren't you frank about it, as I am, and say that you come to loaf? Here, Chew, don't stuff the girl that way! What do you think she is, a capon?”

“You can't kill a Latin Quarter model with food,” observed Mr. Chew, releasing the struggling girl, who tossed a patter of quartier impudence at the group, then departed, laughing.

Chew looked at Hammersmith. “Anyway, you don't come here to loaf; you come to carry Bruxellois Griffon pups and drink camomile tea on the Rue Courcelles.”

The alleged idler flushed. He was a very tall man, with high features and a frame which is called lanky or slender, according to the clothes which cover it. Hammersmith was exquisitely dressed, and his drawling accent was the result of so many years of practise that it was no longer an affectation.

“If I do,” he answered, “it is at least a polite and harmless occupation. You see, I love dogs, just as you love architecture and Lucian loves art. It really does the pups and pagodas and pictures no harm.” He turned to his host. “Tell us some more about your friend Ogilvie. Why a mayor? And how? Why not the diplomatic service, if that sort of thing amuses him?”

“Tom Ogilvie is a worker; a reformer and political economist, and all that sort of thing—you will find a cigarette in that buhl box, Ned—but in spite of that, or because of it, he is a very fine chap. This is his first trip to Europe.”

“No; really?”

“But does he speak French?”

“He speaks college French and German very well. He learned them in cold blood out of books. I tell you, he is a worker. Ogilvie's methods are those of our much-admired President. Incidentally, he is rich, and that saves him a good deal of time.”

“How rich?”

“Oh, rich enough to enable him to work himself to death without being accused of needing the money. He inherited over a million from his father.”

“How convenient!”

“And has since nearly doubled it in his own deals.”

“Shame on him! Married?”

“No. He has always managed to duck. Besides, he has not had time.”

“Fond of—eh, the rigolade?”

“Yes; he's a good fellow—not in our way. You'll see. Maxim's will not bring the generous blood to his cheek, neither will his righteous convictions prevent his hazard of a few louis in games of chance at the Automobile Club. Also, if he prays he does it in his closet. But he would not care for this sort of thing.”

“What?”

“Three strong men drinking mint tea and a smoky model flopping in and out. However, since he is going to live with me he might as well get used to it. Are you going to Lady Talbot's to-morrow?”

The conversation drifted to other topics, and for the moment the Honorable Thomas Ogilvie, Mayor of South Fork, Indiana, was forgotten.

Presently Forest glanced at the clock.

“It's about time Ogilvie turned up,” he observed. “He wired me on leaving Cherbourg, and the steamer-train is always on time.”

“I hear the lift,” said Hammersmith.

“Everybody hears the lift when it goes, which is not often,” said Forest. “I do not trust it myself; hence my excellent condition.”

The entire building shuddered as the small, automatic elevator toiled laboriously upward. Suddenly the groaning noise rose into a wail of agony, then ceased. A moment later a man's voice was heard calling to the concierge.

“By George!” cried Forest, starting up. “That sounds like Ogilvie!”

He threw open the door and stepped out. At the same moment there came floating up through the shaft a crisp volley of Ollendorfic French with a strong Indiana accent.

“Hey, there! Concierge! ''L'ascensoor est arraytay! Qu'est ce qu'il fauta fayre?”''

“Hello, Tom!” called Forest. “What's the matter? Stuck?”

“Hello, Luce!” came the cheerful answer. “How are you, old man? Yes; stuck tight! Jammed in the flue! I had no business to get into this canary-bird cage, anyway! What shall we do?”

“We? Who?”

Ogilvie's voice altered slightly.

“There is a lady in here, also,” he answered.

Forest and his friends descended to the elevator, which proved to have stopped between two floors. Through an aperture about four inches in width where the top of the lift door slightly lapped that of the shaft, the mayor thrust two fingers in salutation.

“That's all I dare risk ,Luce [sic],” he observed. “The box might drop and shear off my fin! So glad I'm insured, although, of course, there's not the slightest danger; it says so on this sign.”

“It is safe enough,” said Forest. “In fact, that is the chief objection to it. It is a safe with a time-lock which does not open until the workmen arrive. Try sending it down.”

“We have tried sending it up and down and sideways,” replied the mayor. “Is there anybody in the house who understands it?”

“I am afraid that there is no such person in France, Tom,” said Forest sadly.

“Then,” said the mayor, “hand me down a fire-ax, and I will unlock the lid.”

The artist was about to answer when the puffing concierge arrived upon the scene. Between this functionary and Forest there ensued a voluble, impassioned dialogue, not one word of which the mayor could understand.

“What is the answer when you boil off the excess, Luce?” he inquired, as the two paused for breath.

“You must have patience, Tom,” said the artist. “This is Saturday afternoon, and it may be hard to get hold of the workmen. The concierge is afraid to meddle with the thing. There is absolutely no danger; you can't possibly drop—but you may have to wait a couple of hours.”

“What!” cried the mayor stridently.

“Two hours?” exclaimed a low, rich voice at his side. “How maddening!”

“Madam,” said the mayor dryly, “do not be disturbed. We will remain in this coop for just the time it takes to get an ax and a step-ladder.” He raised his voice. “Luce! The roof of this cage is made of cardboard. Rip it off!”

“But—but” began the artist.

“But what?” growled the mayor. “Do you think that the top of this thing is worth more than two hours of liberty for two people, one of whom has been shut up on a ship for eight days? Come, get an ax and some steps.” The pleasant voice grew sharply imperative. “I'll conduct the law-suit with your landlord.”

“But perhaps we can find the workmen, Tom,” protested the artist. “You may not have to wait long, and if you are hungry, I will pass you in something. There is some salad”

“Oh, Wap! Do you think that we are going to sit in this cage and nibble leaves like a pair of guinea-pigs. I beg your pardon; madam. Come, hand down something to lift this roof with—a hatchet, a fire-tongs, anything; it won't take a second. I've been studying its construction.”

The interested expatriates upon the landing laughed; then the artist explained the situation to the concierge. A passionate jabber of protest followed his words.

“The concierge says that he will not allow it, Tom,” began Forest.

“The concierge be—pardon me, madam—confounded!” growled the mayor. “Luce, you make me sick!” He examined the four pairs of shoes visible through the slit in the door. “Is there any man in that bunch who will be so kind as to hand me an ax or an ice-pick or a hatchet?” he demanded fiercely. “I only want one good jolt to lift this paper cover!”

“There's a Zulu war-club in the studio,” began Forest reluctantly.

“The Zulu club for mine!” said the mayor. “Bring it out!”

“If you will hold the concierge, Hammersmith,” said Mr. Chew, “I will get the war-club. It will do me good to see a man do what I have always longed for and never been able to afford!”

Ignoring the feeble protests of the host, he entered the studio and unhooked the formidable weapon from where it hung upon the wall, and, disregarding the passionate protestations of the burly concierge, slipped the weapon into the eager grasp of the mayor.

There followed a series of vigorous, upward blows, then the light top of the little box was knocked clear of the body, not, however, without undergoing a certain demolition. Opening the door of the shaft, the men above lifted out the detached part, disclosing the flushed features of a squarely built, dark-haired young man, and a girl whose face at first glance it would have been difficult to describe whether as pretty, beautiful, or extremely odd.

Mr. Chew had brought a high painting-stool from the studio, upon which the mayor assisted his companion to climb. With a gurgling laugh pitched in a very low key, the girl accepted the assistance of three outstretched hands, and was the next moment standing in the corridor. She turned to the mayor, who had closely followed her.

“Thank you very much,” she said, in a curious, throaty voice. She nodded and smiled at the others, then slipped down the stairs, and from the landing beneath, her low, gurgling laugh came up again.

The four men glanced at each other questioningly. The concierge was glowering, and turning the battered roof of the lift in his clumsy hands.

“Tom,” said Forest, “let me present my friends. Mr. Hammersmith, Mr. Chew, the Honorable Thomas Ogilvie, Mayor of South Fork.”

The three men laughed and shook hands. A keen assaying glance shot from the clear eyes of the mayor toward the two faultlessly dressed young men, who returned the look more deliberately and with a friendly interest.

The mayor was of medium height, very broad, heavy in bone but lean in flesh, and with large, square wrists and a firm, cleanly cut jaw. He was neither fair nor dark, was clean-shaven, with a strong-featured face and a wide mouth. In the United States there would have been nothing especially striking in his appearance, beyond a distinct attractiveness; but in Europe, from the North Cape to Gibraltar and from Queenstown to the Caucasus, he would have been identified at first glance as an American. The quick alertness of his movements, the keen, humorous, gray eyes, the friendly expression with its faint tinge of mockery, all pronounced emphatically the national type, so much more constant in the men than in the women.

Ogilvie smiled, showing a double row of strong, even teeth; he said a pleasant word or two, then looked at the elevator and laughed. The growling concierge had waddled off down the stairs, and his voice could be heard snarling to himself or at some one below.

“Too bad to make such a mess of this toy dumb-waiter of yours, Luce; but if they will have those automatic box-traps they ought to provide some means of escape. Life is too short to spend a part of it sitting in a thing like that—even with a pretty girl.”

“Was she pretty?” asked Chew. “I've been trying to decide.”

“I couldn't tell,” said Hammersmith. “Either that or—or”

“Ugly,” said Forest.

“No; bizarre—odd-looking. I believe, though, that she was pretty.”

“Not to my perception,” said Forest. “It gave me a sort of a shock when I looked down into that box and saw her face looking up. She reminded me of a tiger-cub in a cage. She. had yellow, blinking eyes, and sort of a tawny head.”

“She looked all right to me,” said the mayor. “Perhaps it wasn't very gallant of me to struggle so to get away from her; but she wanted to get out as badly as I did. Perhaps she didn't like my look!”

All four laughed. A single glance at the mayor was enough to label him as the natural-born protector of all weak things; women, the poor, children, sick kittens, and the like.

“She seemed hard up, poor thing,” said Chew. “She had no overshoes or umbrella, and her hat looked like a chicken that's been roosting in the rain.”

“She was shabby,” said Hammersmith. “Too bad. I say, just listen to that brute!”

From beneath there arose the snarling tones of the concierge. The man's voice had raised in volume and carried an intensely disagreeable note of anger. Starting very high in pitch, his tongue rattled down the scale until his breath was almost exhausted, when it broke into a growl which was partly groan, after the manner of the low-class French if excessively exasperated.

Forest's sensitive face clouded.

“He's got no business to talk like that; he's using very bad language,” he began, when suddenly a woman's voice interrupted with a stream of rapid, explanatory words.

The straight brows of the mayor knit, and he tilted his head toward the shaft. Chew and Hammersmith exchanged glances.

“By Jove!” said Hammersmith. “I believe that the beast is rowing that girl!”

“I'm afraid that he is,” said Forest nervously. “Perhaps I ought to go down.”

“No,” said the mayor curtly. “I will go down. This is my row. Such a thing as mixing up the girl in it never occurred to me.”

He turned to the stairs, going down two at a time. The three men looked at one another with expressions of mingled amusement and anxiety.

“Your friend the mayor,” observed Mr, Chew, “is apt to infuse the monotony of your life with a certain active interest, Luce.”

“I hope that he will not lose his temper,” said Forest nervously.

“I hope that he will,” drawled Hammersmith. “That concierge of yours is a sulky brute. He's always half-full of sour wine, and he opens the door when he feels like it. Listen!”

The tirade of quartier argot was choked abruptly into an odd, gurgling sound accompanied by low, fierce tones carrying a strong accent of Indiana French. Two or three sharp, thudding sounds followed, then a smothered yelp.

“Taysay voo, cochong!” arose the fierce tones of the mayor. “''Alley voos ong! Fermay votre bouche, ou je voo cassaray la tayte!”''

Clattering steps swift in descent followed, then a blast of patois from the court below.

“My word! I believe that he beat him!” cried Chew ecstatically.

“Hooray for the mayor!” drawled Hammersmith.

“It's a good thing that he is rich,” said Chew. “Every American who comes to France beats a man once; then, unless he's a millionaire, he swears off and takes up some economical form of sport, like ballooning. It's the close season on the beggars all the year round!”

The voice of the mayor talking earnestly floated up the shaft.

“Who is that girl?” asked Chew. “Does she live in the building?”

“Yes,” said Forest. “I've seen her once or twice. She has got one of those studios down-stairs.”

“Alone?”

“There were two of them, but the concierge told me that the other girl had gone back to America. I didn't care much for the way that he spoke of them. I fancy that there haven't been many five franc pieces finding their way in his direction from them. 'Two starvelings,' he called them, 'with the airs of countesses.'”

“Hope the mayor beat his head in,” growled Chew.

“Thirty francs to spit in a man's face, seven hundred and fifty to hit him, besides damages, and nothing at all to kill him with a motor-car if you are insured, which, of course, you are,” said Hammersmith reflectively. “When I get a grudge against a man I am going to lay for him around the corner of his street with my car.”

The returning mayor interrupted the conversation. As he joined the others they observed that his strong features wore a troubled expression.

“I'm sorry I did that,” he said.

“What did you do?” asked Forest.

“I mean the elevator—oh, the concierge? That part of it was obligatory. I only took him by the neck and kicked his pants. But I am afraid that he will make it unpleasant for that girl on account of the elevator.”

“And the pants!” said Mr. Chew.

“No doubt,” said the mayor glumly. “He thinks I'm crazy. He told the girl that I was a madman, and that she should have restrained me—but, then, what in thunder could I do?” The mayor's voice was peevish. “Sit in that cage all night? Come on, Luce, let's go in and have a drink! I'm hotter and madder than I have been since the night of my election!”

Forest led the way into his apartment. The mayor looked around; the vexed expression vanished from his face and was replaced by one of keenest interest and pleasure.

“Fine, oh, fine!” he exclaimed.

His keen eyes took rapid note of everything about the place, flitting from one object to the next in a swift examination which missed nothing; the fine old pieces of furniture, the fragments of tapestry, the studies stacked against the wall or hung carelessly here and there, the unfinished nude upon the easel, the plaster casts, knick-knacks, curios, all were gathered in a delightful realization of a vague, preformed mental picture.

“Grand!” he cried. “Perfectly splendid! Where's Trilby?”

“She went out just before you arrived,” said Forest. He laid his slim hand affectionately upon the broad shoulder of his former roommate. “Glad to see you aboard, old chap, as they say in the navy.” He walked to a beautifully carved sideboard converted from an ancient Breton lit-clos. “Cognac, absinthe, champagne, Irish, Dubonnet.” He glanced at his friend.

“Got any rye?” asked the mayor.

“By George, I believe I have!” cried Forest, in a surprised tone. “Clarence Van Ness stopped with me for a week last spring when he was over, and I believe he left some. I'd forgotten all about it.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” said the mayor, in a tone of mock reproof, “that you have had rye whisky in your closet since last spring, and never felt the need of it? Lucian Forest, you are sadly denationalized!”

He spoke jestingly, and was, therefore, surprised at the sudden flare of color in the face of his friend. He glanced inquiringly at Hammersmith, then toward Chew. Both men had grown a trifle red.

“One—eh—very soon adapts oneself to—eh—foreign customs,” said Hammersmith a little awkwardly.

“The climate of Paris does not permit of the use of much distilled liquor,” said Chew, holding up the divan beneath which Forest was groping for the forgotten rye. “It's too high tension, you know; 'beaucoup d'effervescence.' One needs a nerve-sedative, rather than a stimulant.”

“Naturally; of course,” said the mayor, feeling awkward, he could not have told why. It occurred to him that possibly one of the men was given to alcoholic excesses; he never thought of his careless remark concerning the denationalization of Forest being the cause of the trifling embarrassment. In an effort to change the topic his eye fell on the tea-table.

“Hello!” he exclaimed. “You've been having a tea? Sorry I didn't arrive a little sooner.”

“Only ourselves,” said Forest.

“We were regaling ourselves with a little mint,” said Hammersmith.

The mayor looked puzzled. “Mint?” He asked. “That's a new one on me. Mint what? A hot julep, or something like that?”

“Nothing as exciting as that,” said Chew, with an amused look. “Mint tea. It's a sort of sedative, you know. A quieter.”

A flash of comprehension crossed the mayor's keen face. He glanced up at Chew, then laughed.

“Oh, I see! You fellows were out last night. I didn't understand.”

The three men laughed.

“Isn't that the American of it?” asked Forest, straightening up with the whisky in his hand. “The mayor cannot conceive of three young men requiring any sedative unless recovering from the effects of a spree. No, you hairy savage from out of the West, we drink these decoctions as a steady thing, simply for the greater tranquillity of our nerves. They keep us from smashing elevators, you see, and killing concierges and otherwise breaking the laws of the land.”

“Oh!” The mayor grinned. “Perhaps you had better feed me a bucket or two, Luce. Seriously, though, I'm sorry to have brought the atmosphere of strife into your peaceful, tea-drinking, artistic existence; but please don't forget that it is strictly my row, and that you are not to give it another thought. Damn that dumb-waiter!” he concluded, with heat.

The three men laughed. The mayor glanced around with a half-vexed smile.

“You fellows seem to think that it's a fine joke!” he protested. “Suppose it had been one of you; what would you have done?”

“I think that you did exactly the right thing,” said Chew. “Frankly, I'm filled with admiration. It simply would not have occurred to me. Smothered by European convention, I fancy.”

“That's it,' said Hammersmith. “You've no idea how you have refreshed me, Mr. Ogilvie. The whole thing was great! Delicious! So unusual, yet so absolutely reasonable! I would not have missed it for anything! So truly American, was it not?” He glanced at the others.

A furrow drew itself between the straight eyebrows of the mayor. Here were three American men, all entirely free to enjoy the broad and liberal ideas of their own country, delighted at his Americanism, as they characterized it.

“I'm afraid that we do become a bit subdued after being over here for a while,” said Hammersmith. “Really, a man should go home every three or four years just to get infused with new strenuosity. I have taken a lot of different cures in Europe, but, as a matter of fact, I don't know that any of them has the same reinvigorating effect as a visit to America.”

It struck the mayor that this was but damning the mother country with faint praise, yet the good intention was sincere if anemic.

“I don't agree with you,” said Forest. “The last time I went over I came back and had nervous prostration. It was a whole year before I was able to work again. Over there, when people learned I was an artist, they would say: 'What magazines do you illustrate for?'”

Chew and Hammersmith laughed. The mayor looked puzzled, but said nothing.

“Was the girl in the elevator an artist, Luce?” he asked presently.

“Yes,” said Forest. “She has a studio down-stairs.”

“I can't get her face out of my mind,” said the mayor. “I don't think that I ever saw a woman who looked like her. Did any of you notice,” he asked slowly, “how poor she looked?”

“Yes,” said Hammersmith. “It is a pity. Especially as she appeared to be a lady.”

“She is a lady,” said the mayor. “Do you know”—his pleasant voice lowered—“I can't get away from the uncomfortable idea that that girl was—hungry!”

“Beastly thought!” said Hammersmith.

“She certainly is hard up,” said Chew. “Her shoes were all gone and wet, and her gloves had been mended until there wasn't much glove left.” He glanced at the artist. “Do you suppose that we could find out anything about her, Lucian—and—and help her, perhaps?” His clear complexion colored slightly.

“I don't know,” began Forest doubtfully. “It's pretty hard over here for a man to do anything for a woman without the—eh—motive being misunderstood”

“What?” cried the mayor. “Surely not between Americans!”

“Well, then, how would you go at it?” asked Forest. “One can't very well say to her: 'Madam, you look hard up. Permit me to offer you one hundred francs.'”

“I'll put up the relief fund,” said Chew, “if somebody else will conduct the presentation. There is no doubt that she is desperately poor, and she our countrywoman and all of that; but if I went up to her and she turned those yellow eyes on me and that tiger-cubby face, I think I'd bolt. Our people are so different from Europeans; you can tip anybody over here, from your garçon to the premier.”

“It's not a nice job,” said the mayor, “but”—his mouth closed firmly—“I believe that I will tackle it.”

The three men looked at him in surprise.

“What, offer to help her?” asked Hammersmith. “Good for you! I wouldn't have the courage; you see, her dress was pathetic, but she wasn't!”

“That is true,” said the mayor, “but, hang it, she looked hungry!”

The others stirred uncomfortably.

“Don't suggest such a thing, Tom,” said Forest. “My word! think of three well-fed men dawdling before this fire with a hungry girl down-stairs; and an artist at that!”

“And a lady,” said Hammersmith, “for she was that.”

“And a beauty,” said Chew, “for I begin to think that she was that, too.”

“And,” said the mayor slowly, “an American!”

“Oh, I don't believe that it's really as bad as that,” said Forest. “Listen!”

From somewhere beneath there arose the jabber of the concierge. The man's rough, irritating voice rose snarlingly. Ogilvie glanced at Hammersmith, whose high features wore an expression of extreme annoyance. Chew's genial face was growing red and his eyes beginning to darken. The mayor looked next at his host; Forest's sensitive features were pale from anger and excitement.

“That swine has gone and got drunk and come back to abuse that poor girl!” he cried, and leaped to his feet, but the mayor sprang up at the same moment and laid his hand on the artist's shoulder.

“Sit down, Luce,” he said quietly. “Remember, this is my row. I will go down and subdue that animal, and this time I will do it right!”

He stepped out of the room and turned to the stairs. Down below the half-drunken concierge was snarling and growling like an angry cur, and as Ogilvie ran down the winding stairs he heard the man seize a door by the knob and shake it violently. Half-way to the bottom, his step was apparently recognized, for there came the clatter of heavy boots swift in descent, a snarling word which sounded like “Apache!” and the rattle of the man's tongue in the court outside.

Much incensed at the trivial meanness of the concierge's methods of retaliation and anxious to discuss with its victim some means of stopping it, the mayor reached the door of the girl's studio and rapped sharply. As he did so there came to his ear the unmistakable sound of short, angry sobs. He rapped again.

“It is Mr. Ogilvie,” he said. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

The sobbing ceased abruptly. There was an instant of silence, then a low-pitched laugh, strangely like that of a schoolboy who has been surprised in a moment of weakness and is trying to conceal it.

“Yes, Mr. Ogilvie; if you don't mind waiting for just a moment.”

Ogilvie's ear confirmed its former suspicion of a Southern accent in the throaty tones. There followed the sound of heavy objects being pushed along the bare floor; then the bolt was slid and the door opened barely wide enough for him to squeeze through.

“Can you get in?” There was another boyish laugh.

Ogilvie entered and looked about in surprise. It was a big, bare place, cold as a barn and dimly lit by a single lamp. Here and there were odd but excellent pieces of furniture of different periods, some handsome rugs, and what looked to be very good tapestries. Even in the dim light the mayor was impressed by the odd incongruity of the discomfort of the place and the elegance of its furnishings. In one corner stood a large canvas, draped, upon an easel, and there was a great profusion of studies of all sizes, for the most part standing in stacks against the wall.

He glanced at the tenant, and as he turned toward the light he saw that his breath was blowing out in puffs of steam, so cold and damp was the studio. The girl was looking at him in a curious, sidelong way as if unwilling that he should see her face; as he caught her eye she laughed, but the laugh failed to hide the traces of tears. His glance swept to the door; the girl followed it, and again her boyish laugh gurgled out.

“Don't you admire my barricade, Mr. Ogilvie?” she asked. “You see, my bolt is not very strong.”

Ogilvie stared. A big, carved armoire and a bookcase had been dragged against the door. Both were heavy pieces, and the mayor could scarcely believe that the slender, graceful figure before him could have placed them there.

The girl watched his bewilderment with undisguised relish. As he glanced from the barricade to herself her low-pitched laugh burst out again; when she laughed her lip curved upward and showed two rows of white, even teeth; she drew her shoulders up at the same moment; her eyes closed almost entirely, and her short nose wrinkled like that of a laughing boy. And then in a flash the laugh had vanished, and she stood looking at the mayor with an odd expression of surprise, her eyes wide, their black fringes far apart, her lips parted, and a curious expression of startled wonder on her odd face.

“What is it?” asked Ogilvie.

“What is what, Mr. Ogilvie?”

“I thought you were listening to something.”

“No, I was watching you.”

“Oh!” said the mayor, and stared at her, bewildered. “What are you laughing at? Me?”

“Yes. Your expression was droll as you looked at my barricade.”

“Was it? A minute ago you were crying,” said the mayor.

“That was rage; sheer, helpless rage! I was wishing that I were a man for about ten minutes, Mr. Ogilvie.”

The boyish look was whipped away; the rich voice dropped lower; the last words came in a purring growl, and the expression of her face as she said them impressed the mayor as not quite human, It fascinated him so that he could not look away at once.

“Well,” he answered, “you are not; but I am!”

“Yes! You are! But it does not do one much good to be a man in France unless one is a millionaire, too.”

“Well,” said the mayor, “I am both. If I couldn't afford to pay for elevators I would not knock their tops off. Apparently you are being made to pay for this one, and that is what I am out to prevent. Such a thing as making trouble for you never occurred to me.”

“It did to me,” said the girl, “but it was worth it!” She laughed again.

“Wish you'd stopped me,” said the mayor. He looked at her thoughtfully. “Do you know what I believe that I will do?”

“What, Mr. Ogilvie? Kill the concierge?”

She clapped her hands together softly, and the mayor observed, even in the lamplight, what very beautiful hands they were, with small, strong fingers set well apart and white wrists which were absolutely round. They were hands made to use. The girl's quick laugh shook her again; as she laughed her dark lashes drew a straight line across her wide face, and she jerked her head a little to one side. The mayor had never seen a person laugh in that peculiar way, and he stared, deeply interested. Then, as the laugh vanished on the instant, and the girl was looking at him with wide, wondering eyes, her lips apart and her tongue between her teeth.

“What makes you do that?” asked the mayor.

“What, Mr. Ogilvie?”

“Laugh that way; then stop suddenly and stare at me with your mouth open. Do you hear anything?”

Her black lashes opened slightly wider, then narrowed again.

“No. Do I do that? I didn't know.”

“Yes—what was I talking about?” asked the mayor almost vexedly.

“You were telling me that you were a man and a millionaire, and could pay for what you smashed and”

“Oh, no, no, no, no! Don't put it like that!” cried the mayor in a tone of amused irritation. “I was going to say that rather than have you bothered I will go to that dog of a concierge and pay for the miserable elevator. It's not worth it.”

“Don't!” said the girl quickly.

“Well—I won't have you building barricades and living in hourly fear.”

“I'm not afraid, Mr. Ogilvie.” She chopped out the words quickly and half-turned on her heel, tilting her head defiantly.

Ogilvie studied her with deeper interest. She had removed her coat and was wearing a queer, close-fitting gown such as one sees in paintings of the women of the middle ages. It brought out the beautiful curves of her lithe figure in a way which impressed the mayor as too pronounced. He frowned.

The girl looked at him, then stepped to her barricade, hauled the heavy bookcase out of the way, and had slewed it into its place against the wall before it occurred to the mayor to help. Then he sprang forward, and together they replaced the big armoire.

“It's chilly, is it not?” she asked, and crossed the room, picked up her coat, and threw it about her shoulders.

Suddenly it occurred to the mayor that he had never seen so graceful a woman nor one so strong for her slenderness. She reminded him of a cat, a leopardess, or tigress, or footed feline. That was it; the long, tawny eyes, the excessive width of the forehead, the short, straight nose and cheeks cut out underneath, not thin, but flat, tigerlike. Then her hair was tawny, too, and her face had the baffling blankness of the faces of the cat tribe. It was as feline as her strong, supple movements and low, purring voice.

“It is chilly,” she repeated, shaking herself under the folds of the coat.

“Let me help you.” Ogilvie stepped forward, but she evaded him with an undulating movement.

“No.” She drew the coat about her. “I've been posing as Tiphaine and am still wearing the costume; the dress of the period. You don't know who she was, do you?”

“Yes, I do; she was the wife of Bertrand du Guesclin.”

“Good for you!”

“Tiphaine was a kind of sorceress, wasn't she?” asked the mayor.

“Yes; she had second sight. So have I!” Again the gurgling laugh welled out, followed by the swift look of startled inquiry. “My clairvoyance is not practical, though, or we would not have got into the elevator!”

“But you are an artist, are you not?” asked the mayor.

“Yes. Sometimes I pose for people whom I like; that is, if I like their work.”

“But you are not a model!”

“Of course not!” Her face grew suddenly fierce; its expression suggested that of a caged tigress angered at some thought, some picture of the jungle passing behind the flat, impenetrable eyes. “I am not a model at all, Mr. Ogilvie, but I would pose hanging by my hair if it would contribute to a masterpiece.”

The mayor looked closer and discovered that she had a great profusion of hair; a big piled-up mass of it, of queer, dull sulphur color, as it appeared in the dim light. Then he observed that she was saying good night to him and holding out one of her small, strong hands; and without knowing exactly how it happened the mayor found himself in the hall and on his way up the stairs.

“Confound that dumb-waiter!” growled the mayor as he passed the lifeless lift. He entered the studio still growling.

“Is he dead?” asked Hammersmith.

“Who? Oh, the concierge? No, he sneaked,” growled the mayor, striding irritably up and down the room. In front of the artist he paused.

“I've been talking to that girl. She's a puzzle.”

“That,” said Forest, “is a peculiarity of about a hundred women out of ninety-nine.”

“I mean,” said the mayor, “that I don't understand her position. She is living down there in a place where it would be cruel to stable an automobile, with no light nor fire, cooking her own grub—and has all sorts of fine furniture strewn about!”

“That is easy to explain,” said Forest. “She and another girl rented the place furnished from a French painter.”

“Pshaw!!” snapped the mayor. “I must be dotty! I never thought of that.”

“Did she spurn your proffered aid?” asked Forest.

“I—I didn't proffer it,” mumbled the mayor.

“Lost your courage, eh?” said Forest with a grin.

“Not exactly, but—well—hang it, one couldn't pity her, somehow. She's independent as a cat and just about as easy to understand. She had built a barricade to keep out the concierge, and was in there behind it as calm and cool and self-contained as a Jap soldier. But she was crying before I went in,” he added uncomfortably.

Hammersmith smote his thigh, “That's just it! It's all a bluff. I've known some of these tiger-kitty women; they suffer as much as any; more, for all of their sleek smoothness. It's their pride or that sort of primitive deceitfulness which makes an animal instinctively hide a hurt, which keeps one from pitying them. I don't know!”

“Hammersmith is right,” said Chew. “I'll wager that if you were to see her now you would see a different girl.”

“Pride will not dry her stockings,” muttered Forest, “and her feet were soaking wet. I noticed.”

“No; and it is poor stuff to burn when you're cold,” said Hammersmith. “But, then, what are you going to do?”

The mayor had continued striding up and down, glancing from one speaker to another. At Hammersmith's words he stepped to the door and threw it open, . “That,” he answered, “is what I am going down to find out.”

He turned abruptly and left the room.

When he had gone, Chew said:

“What will you bet that Mr. Ogilvie does find out?”

“I am willing to wager several louis,” drawled Hammersmith, “that he does not. I will go further because I think that I know the type. I will bet you a supper that he does not even find her.”

“Take you!” said Mr. Chew.

“I am now,” said Mr. Forest, as he held open the door of the cab for his friend, “about to take you to see the loveliest girl in Paris.”

“American?” asked the mayor, seating himself.

“Of course; American girls are always the loveliest girls to be found anywhere.” Forest slammed the door. “More than this,” he continued, “it is only right that I should warn you that you are the man whom I have selected as her husband.”

“Good!” cried the mayor. “If you are disappointed I am sure that it will be because I cannot qualify. I very much want to be married, and your description of the lady begins most attractively.”

“It continues,” said the artist, “in the same strain, rising in crescendo and never ending! Hélène Jerome is talented, possesses all of the social graces, has the disposition of an angel, and socially you could mate no higher. The family's position is a thing assured, and she would be equally at home in London, Paris, Vienna, or Rome.”

“How about South Fork?”

“She could do it no harm; she is too typically an American girl.”

“Where do they live?”

“Rue Francois Premier.”

“I mean at home.”

“That is her home; she was born there. She has never been to America.”

“Never been—and you call her an American girl!” cried the mayor.

“I mean her type. She uses her mind practically; both to entertain and to get what she wants. She is not subdued, with that avid-eyed silence peculiar to young French girls. She's chatty and natural and broad-minded, and there is nothing snobbish about her.”

“My finish is looming higher every minute,” said the mayor. “Are my in-laws equally attractive?”

“They are a not infrequent type of expatriates,” said Forest evasively, “but very charming people. Mr. Jerome is a dilettante artist.”

“And Mrs. Jerome?”

“You will see. She is a graceful creature, who has the faculty of making people think that they wish to give her exactly what she wants. She craves power and is very fond of men, in spite of which the cats like her.

“Cats?”

“The tea-tabbies to be found at every polite gathering, who may be said to represent the tannin of the tea, the nicotine of the cigar, sometimes, the microbe in the kiss.”

“Help!”

For several minutes neither spoke; then Forest, glancing at the mayor, observed that he was staring through the cab-window apparently lost in thought.

“Don't fall in love with the wrong one,” cautioned Forest.

“Eh—what?” The mayor started slightly. “What's that?”

“I say, don't fall in love—why don't you listen when I'm priming you?”

A tinge of color appeared on the mayor's lean cheeks.

“I beg your pardon, old boy. I—I don't know what it was, but something that you said suggested that girl of last night to my mind. What do you suppose could have become of her?”

“Oh, I don't know; perhaps she thought that you were a bit more solicitous than the case warranted and kept mum when you knocked.”

The mayor's face darkened.

“I should hate to believe that she thought me that kind of a dog,” he snapped. “I prefer to think that she was out. Did you ever see such peculiar eyes?”

“You leave other girls' eyes alone when I'm describing your future wife and her family,” said Forest with smiling vexation. “The trouble with you, Tom, is that you are cursed with a too kind and sympathetic nature. Hang it!” he burst out impatiently. “There ought to be an immigration law against indigent American students entering France! Some girl from Kalamazoo or Oshkosh or”

“South Fork!”

“Or South Fork, gets a scholarship that will ferry her across and grubstake her for a few months, and she thinks by that time she will have won the Prix de Rome or a Sorbonne prize —and then the money is exhausted; some rich contestant draws the prize, of course, and voila!”

“Well,” said the mayor. “Voila—what?”

Forest shrugged. “That depends,” he answered evasively.

The mayor growled. Forest glanced at him quickly.

“I beg your pardon, Luce, but the thought of that girl gets under my ribs. Poor thing, cold and wet, hungry, no doubt, yet cheerful as a kitten under a stove; and directly overhead four pampered brutes sitting around a fire.” The mayor became silent.

“She is one of many,” said Forest, “and they are not unhappy. You see, they are young and have ideals and still hope to achieve them.” A certain wistfulness crept into his voice; he also grew silent.

“The Jeromes are not rich,” he said presently, as the cab turned up the old, aristocratic street. “If they had lived in New York it would have to be in Harlem, which is no doubt one of many good reasons for their living in Paris.” He threw open the cab door, stepped out, paid the cabman, and they entered the house. “Get into the lift, Tom,” he said; “it has never failed me.”

There were a number of people about the tea-table as the two were shown in. A very pretty woman came forward to greet them. She had a soft voice which enunciated clearly each syllable, and as she gave the mayor her slender hand he had a pleasant consciousness of being no stranger. Her cool, gray eyes met his with friendliness.

“I am so glad that you have come to see us, Mr. Ogilvie,” she said in a voice which matched perfectly her eyes and touch. “We have heard so much about you.”

“You are very kind, Mrs. Jerome,” said the mayor.

“Do tell my daughter Hélène about your campaign; the child is mad over everything American—the homing instinct which all creatures possess, don't you think, Mr. Ogilvie? Hélène, dear!”

A very charming girl, who had been chatting with some people on the other side of the room, turned and came smilingly toward them. The mayor was quite sure that he had never seen so lovely a creature nor one with the same fresh, delicate perfection. She was taller than her mother, more slender, with a deeper tint to her complexion, and eyes of so dark a blue as in some lights to appear black. Her hair was very dark, and the shape of her face was of the Celtic type which one associates more with Ireland than France, nose short, almost retroussé, upper lip full and with an upward curve at the center, and cheeks like Jacqueminot roses.

“How do you do, Mr. Ogilvie?” she said, giving him her hand. She turned to Lucian. “Where is that sketch?” she demanded, a mischievous sparkle in her deep eyes. “Lucian tells me that you were chums at college, Mr. Ogilvie.” She looked inquiringly at the mayor. “Did you ever catch him in the act of telling the truth?”

“Sometimes,” said the mayor seriously, “but only when he talked in his sleep.”

Hélène laughed and threw the mayor a quick, curious look. His voice fell oddly on her ear. Ogilvie himself would have declined to believe that there was any difference in his accent and that of a New Yorker.

“Lucian says that you are maire,” she said in her prettily inflected English. “You do not look in the least like one!”

“Don't I? How should that be?” asked Ogilvie.

They moved aside to let some people pass.

Hélène laughed and colored slightly. “I am sure I do not know, Mr. Ogilvie. You are the first maire whom I have had the honor of meeting. Will you not have some tea?”

“I would rather talk to you if I may.”

“Then come over here and tell me about America. You know, I have never been there, and I am wild to go and see the tall buildings and the Indians and the cowboys. Lucian says that you have been a cowboy.” She studied him with bright, interested eyes.

“First,” said the mayor, “you must tell me why you think that I am not the real thing.”

“Oh, but I do not think that, Mr. Ogilvie; but over here maires are usually old and fat, with black mustaches and barbiches, and are very imposing persons. You look more like a gentleman than a maire.”

“Heavens! Can't a man be both?” The mayor looked startled. “Isn't it all right? You worry me. Isn't it respectable?”

Hélène looked at him and laughed.

“To be maire? Oh, yes, indeed. That is precisely what it is. It is respectable. Bourgeois, you see.”

“I begin to,” said Ogilvie. “But it is not gentlemanly to be respectable.”

“It is an odd position for a gentleman, is it not?” answered Hélene. “In France, a gentleman is more apt to be in the army or the diplomatic service, if he wishes for authority or réclame.” She glanced across the room, then leaned slightly toward the mayor, and he felt her delicate breath upon his cheek. “There is Prince Roubanoff, Mr. Ogilvie. Don't you think that he looks like a bear? You know, he is a cousin to the czar. Do you know him?”

“No,” said the mayor. “I doubt if he ever gets to South Fork.”

“Probably not,”, said the girl seriously. “That woman he is talking to is the Baronne Chatillon-Challun. You have no doubt met her because she is American, you know. Do you think that she is pretty?”

“Quite,” said the mayor. “Does she?”

Hélène looked at him, then laughed. At the same moment a tail, handsome man with a very dissipated face stepped to her side and made some remark in French. The girl replied and there followed a short conversation so rapid and dialectic that the most of it was lost to the mayor. When finally he ventured a remark in French, Hélène glanced at him with a quick lifting of her eyebrows.

“But you speak French perfectly,” she said.

“You are the first person to find that out,” said the mayor. “Thank you, so much!”

“Of course, you have an accent,” said Hélène, “but there is no more reason why you should not have an American accent in your speech than in your face and figure.”

She turned to the other man. “Monsieur is maire,” she said, indicating Ogilvie, who wondered a little at her not introducing them.

“Truly?” replied the Frenchman, raising his brows and glancing at Ogilvie with indifferent curiosity.

“Yes,” said Hélène. “Monsieur Ogilvie is maire of Indiana, in America.”

“In North or South America?” asked the other politely.

“You should study the geography of my country, monsieur,” said Hélène severely. “Indiana is in North America, naturally, as it is in the United States. It is quite far from New York and there are more tramways than in Paris.” She looked at Ogilvie with sparkling eyes. “Is that not true? Lucian told me!”

“Yes,” said the mayor dryly. “There is no doubt that Indiana has more tramways than Paris.”

“But surely not so many cabs?”

“Possibly.”

“Nor so many automobiles?” exclaimed the Frenchman with a challenging glance.

“I do not know how many automobiles Paris has,” said the mayor evasively.

“There is Mr. Hammersmith,” said Hélène, looking toward the door. “Do you know him?” she asked of the mayor. She beckoned to Hammersmith, who crossed the room to join them. The Frenchman bowed and moved away.

“How do you do, Mr. Hammersmith?” said the girl. “You know Mr. Ogilvie?”

“Yes, we've met,” said Hammersmith, nodding pleasantly toward the mayor. He glanced at the Frenchman, who was out of ear-shot, and slightly wrinkled his patrician features.

“Who is he?” asked the mayor.

“He is the Marquis De Montbrison; a painter, and a very good one; a Luxembourg man.”

“Excuse me a minute,” said Hélène, rising. “Mama is beckoning. Don't go away, please.”

The two men arose; Hélène picked her way across the room to where her mother was chatting with a distinguished-looking man who wore the red ribbon of the Légion d'Honneur.

“The Marquis De Montbrison,” said Hammersmith to the mayor, “may be a very good artist, but that does not prevent his being a very bad lot. Do you remember that beautiful girl's head which has been in the windows of all of the art shops for the past two or three years? She was an English girl, a model; and it was on his account that she finally threw herself into the Seine. I happened to know her slightly. She was a nice girl.”

“Is that generally known?” asked the mayor.

“Oh, yes; it brought him great réclame; those things are not to a man's discredit over here.”

Before the »mayor could answer, Hélène had joined them again.

“That is the new British secretary of the embassy,” she said. “He had letters to papa. He is very nice.”

“Yes,” said Hammersmith, “he is. I met him two years ago in Petersburg. He was stationed there at that time.”

Hélène made some remark regarding the diplomatic service, and for a while she and Hammersmith chatted, the mayor listening with interest, tactfully included by the others in their talk but able to contribute only generalities. He watched the girl, fascinated by her prettiness and intelligence; as she talked her color came and went delicately, and when deeply intent upon what she was saying her blue eyes appeared to darken. Most of all, her inflection with its faint suggestion of a French accent charmed the mayor; he was sorry when presently he observed Lucian motioning to him from the end of the room.

“Lucian is flying signals,” he said. “Who is that woman to whom he is talking?”

“She is the Princess Zaryn.” Hélène dropped her voice. “They say that she is a nihilist!”

“I am not afraid,” said the mayor. “We have three at large in South Fork. Two are in my employ.”

Nodding to the others, he crossed the room and was introduced by Forest to the princess. She was a tall-framed woman, with a face which would never look aged. She and Forest were speaking French, and without the slightest effort she continued the conversation in English, which she spoke as might an Englishwoman. With infinite tact she cast about for some topic in which all three might share.

For the first time in his life the mayor found himself at a loss. He did not want to talk generalities, but aside from his own local interests there was little else left. He was distinctly relieved when Forest arose and said that they must go.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Tom?” asked the artist as they walked across to the Champs Elysées. “Were you bored?”

“Not at all,” said the mayor. “I was trying too hard to keep from boring.”

Forest laughed. “And Hélène?” he asked.

“If you had not torn me away from Miss Jerome,” said the mayor, “I would have been absolutely happy. She is an angel!”

Forest looked searchingly at his friend. “You really mean that she made an impression?”

“She has left a wound,” said the mayor in his mock-serious voice, “which she alone can heal. You were right; she is a lovely girl.”

Forest glanced at him doubtfully. The mayor turned and met the look and laughed; nevertheless a tinge of color crept up under his fresh skin.

“Then she really made an impression?” asked the artist.

“Of course she did. How could she help it? What do you think I am? A blasé boulevardier like yourself?”

“I am very glad,” said Forest, “because it was very evident she liked you.”

“Well, why shouldn't she? I was just as nice as I knew how to be, and sat there as good as gold. What are you driving at, anyway?” The mayor's voice contained a note of amused vexation.

“Is it possible that you have forgotten my ambitions for you?”

The mayor stopped short and regarded his friend with amazement.

“And do you dare to tell me,” he said, “that your match-making old mind has already fastened seriously upon that idea?”

“Why not? You have met her and she has met you.”

The mayor's blue-gray eyes opened wide.

“But—but—why, hang it all, she scarcely knows me! She might not have me. Might not—of course she wouldn't. Why the devil should she? What are you talking about?”

“She will have you,” replied the artist.

“She will! What do you know about it? Besides, her parents might balk, and—oh, dry up! You make my head swim!”

“Her parents would be very glad of such a match, my dear boy.”

“What? They would? Why should they? They probably want her to marry a title.”

“They don't. They are too fond of her. Besides. there's nothing for an American woman in marrying a French title, because, if there is a divorce, which there usually is, she loses the title.”

“But there are other titles,” cried Ogilvie, walking slowly on, his eyes on the ground and his head in a whirl.

“There is no title any better than an American 'mister,' and these people over here realize it fully; better than they do at home. Europe knows very well, to-day, that America is the rising nation of the world. England is wobbling, Germany is very sick, Spain and Italy are mummified, and Russia is still uncivilized. There isn't an American mother of sense in Europe to-day who loves her child who would not rather marry her to a clean-minded, clean-bodied, well-bred American who can give her all that you could, than to any quarterings on the list. It is only in our great republic that people are hypnotized by titles. Over here they know what they're worth.”

“But—but—heavens and earth—you make me dizzy, Luce! Are you trying to tell me that if I want to marry that lovely girl all that I've got to do is to ask for her? What makes you think that she'd marry me?”

“Hélène Jerome,” said Forest, “has had the bringing up of a French girl. She will marry cheerfully the man whom her parents select for her. Besides, she is heart-free and is just ripe to fall desperately in love.”

“Help!” The mayor looked wildly at his friend, then tottered toward the curb and signaled to a passing cab. He turned to Forest a red face upon which a smile was fighting its way through the amazement.

“I feel weak, Luce! You don't mind riding, do you?”

The two men crawled into the little vehicle, when the mayor took off his hat, opened the window, and sat with the cold, wintry breeze blowing upon his flushed face.

“I never heard of such a thing,” he cried suddenly. “Why, upon my soul, these people haven't got out of the middle ages! Fancy marrying a lovely girl like that without consulting her heart!”

“Don't be an ass, Tom,” said Forest. “Her heart would be properly consulted. Naturally, you are not to sit like a dummy and twirl your thumbs; but with everything made as easy as it would be, if you couldn't win her you ought to be put to work cracking stones for the road or some other equally intellectual task. The point is, do you want to marry her or don't you?”

“Why how in—eh—yes, I do!” The mayor tugged out his handkerchief and drew it across his heated face.

“All right, then. I thought that you would. You know, you said that you wanted to get married, and I am sure you could find no more charming woman nor one who would contribute more socially and—eh—in other ways. If you like I'll go ahead with the matter.”

“You will! You! Oh, good heavens! How?”

“How? Well, you are a hairy savage! How do you suppose? I'll go to her parents, imbecile, and tell them that I have a fool of a friend who has the cheek to want to marry their daughter.”

“Help! And after that expect me to get up the nerve to have a rose pinned on me and my pants pressed and my hair slicked down with ba'ar grease and then prance up and pay my addresses? Heavens! Tell the driver to hurry! I want to get back to the studio and lap up a gallon of mint tea!”

Forest witheringly surveyed his friend.

“Well, you are a heathen, Tom,” he observed. “Don't you understand that it is the custom? And a very good custom, too! You see, it prevents any ineligible on the visiting-list who owns three suits of clothes and two hats from entering the lists for matrimony with a desirable girl and then forcing their hands on the parents. You would be like one of the family from the start; and after you had been married a month she would be crazy about you.”

“Stop! Oh, stop! Have you no sense of shame? No maiden modesty?” The mayor laughed, his face crimson.

Forest sniffed disdainfully and looked out of the window. Neither spoke again until they were crossing the Place de la Concorde. By that time the mayor had recovered his equilibrium. He turned to his friend, and his strong features wore their usual pleasant and thoughtful expression.

“Now that the first shock has passed,” he observed with a smile, “I am beginning to realize that my hour has struck. Seriously, Luce, I have never admired any girl as I do Miss Jerome. She would be precisely the wife that I have pictured in my somewhat limited imagination. I want to get married. I am thirty-six, have money enough to give a woman all that she could reasonably ask for, and if she would have me” He paused. “I haven't had such a jolt since they told me that I had been elected!” he burst out suddenly. “Frankly, Luce, I mean to marry well. My family, while gentlefolk and all of that, were never prominent socially, and I am a bit ambitious. I want the best—not only for myself but for my children. I want their associations to be of the highest.”

“They would be that,” said Forest, smiling. “Hélène Jerome's position is secure both on her mother's and father's side.”

“I might as well confess,” continued the mayor, “that this afternoon has furnished me with food for thought. The United States comprises a very large and important area of the earth's surface, but there is also a very big and important world outside. Hang it all! I doubt if there are half a dozen people in this city who have ever heard my name—or even know that there is such a place as South Fork!”

“And South Fork,” said Forest indignantly, “with more miles of trolley-track than Paris! It's a confounded shame!”

“Oh, Wap!” said the mayor disgustedly. “Wouldn't it jolt you? Wouldn't it rock the foundations of your self-esteem? Tell that wretched cocher to shove along. I want to get home and drink some mint tea!”

The mayor fell silent, nor did he reply except by grunts to Forest's remarks until they had reached the Pont Alexandre Trois. The early dark of midwinter had settled upon the city, and as they rolled across the bridge Ogilvie leaned forward and stared up-stream at the sparkling vista of multi-colored lights. He sighed deeply.

“That,” said Forest, “has the inflection of sincerity.”

“What?”

“That sigh. It encourages me to believe that perhaps the poison is working.”

The mayor laughed shortly.

“I shame to say,” he answered, “that my thoughts were for the moment with another girl.”

“Animal!”

“I was thinking, said the mayor, “of the difference in the fortunes of Miss Jerome and—that girl of last night.”

“You get that girl out of your head!” exclaimed the artist irritably.

“I wish that I could,” said the mayor slowly. “She's left her impression. I don't know what it is.”

“I do,” said Forest quietly.

“Well, what then?”

“It is the impression of a pair of very striking amber-colored eyes set in a face of very unusual and picturesque fascination, under the most wonderful hair which I have ever seen, and carried about on top of a distinctly beautiful and seductive figure!”

“Oh, no, no. That is not it at all!” The mayor's voice vibrated to a note of extreme annoyance. “Perhaps she was pretty. Yes, I believe that she was, in an odd, catlike sort of a way. But upon my word, Luce, I have not given that part of her a thought. I don't want to think about her, beyond what is necessary to help her, as a fellow countrywoman.”

“You are too beastly sympathetic, Tom. You have got it in your old good-natured head that she is suffering.”

“No, no, no! It is not that, either! I am not sorry for her in the least. She is quite happy. It is simply that I can't get rid of her. I see her, that's all. I see her looking at me with her head tilted a bit on one side and her black lashes drawing a straight line across her wide face and her mouth half-open with the upper lip curved up in the middle and her teeth shining through. It's a sort of possession.” The mayor gave a short laugh. “She'd have been burned for it in the middle ages!”

“And to-day,” observed Forest dryly, “you burn for it.”

“I don't burn!” snapped the mayor. “I'm a chump to think about it at all; but I feel nervous and irritable to-day. Guess I'm beginning to feel the reaction of my campaign.” He grinned. “But no doubt a cup of mint tea will put me back where I belong.”

Forest glanced at him curiously, but did not answer. A few minutes later the cab drew up in the narrow street before their building. As the mayor was paying the driver, Forest glanced up.

“There is a light in the sorceress' window,” he observed as they entered, “Why don't you stop in and see if you can find out what sort of a spell she has put over you?”

“I intend to stop and ask if she has had any more annoyance,” said the mayor curtly, “and if the opportunity offers I shall try to learn something of her circumstances. Even witches can be hungry, I suppose. Won't you stop in with me?”

“No, old chap. Two of us might put her on the defensive. Besides, you are already acquainted. Don't make too long a call, as we are dining at the Maitlands'.” He continued on his way.

At the door of the girl's studio the mayor paused and rapped.

“Who is it?” came the swift answer in French.

“It is Mr. Ogilvie. I stopped to ask if you have had any more annoyance,” said the mayor.

“No, Mr. Ogilvie, none whatever.” There was a rustle within, the door opened, and the girl stood on the threshold. From inside of the room there came only a faint flicker of light.

“May I come in?” asked the mayor. “I want to talk to you.”

“Of course you may, Mr. Ogilvie, if you don't mind the cheerlessness of this place.” She threw open the door and stepped back. Ogilvie entered, then closed the door behind him.

Across the big, bare studio a single candle was burning on a table; the feeble, flickering light threw fantastic shadows from the easel and other uncouth objects in the shrouded gloom. Their breath as they talked arose in thin clouds of steam, and there was the cold, raw smell of a room that has not been thoroughly dried through a season of dampness. The mayor glanced about and shook his head.

“This will not do, Miss—Miss” He glanced at her inquiringly. “Would you mind telling me your name?”

“My name is Carroll Winn, Mr. Ogilvie. What were you saying, please?”

“This will not do, Miss Winn,” said the mayor gravely. “This place is like a tomb.”

“Really, Mr. Ogilvie, I am very sorry, but you would insist upon coming in.”

“Nonsense!” said the mayor curtly. “You know what I mean. You must not live in such an atmosphere as this. The first thing that you know you will have pneumonia or rheumatism or diptheria.”

“But I am sure that I do not know how it is to be helped, Mr. Ogilvie. You see, another girl and I took this place between us, but she got discouraged and gave up the struggle and went home.”

“And left you to shoulder the whole thing?”

“Yes. You see, I had reckoned on so much for the rent and so much for living expenses; but now the rent takes it all.”

Carroll laughed, and the mayor leaned forward to watch for the queer little sideways jerk of the head and the odd, wondering expression which followed it.

“I see,” he answered, pleased at her frankness. “That is about what I had thought. Now, Miss Winn, I hope that you will take what I am going to say in the same spirit in which it is spoken. You are an American woman in very difficult circumstances. You are in a strange foreign city, hostile to women, alone, and living in a place which would be the death of any but a very strong person.” He paused.

“Yes, Mr. Ogilvie,” said Carroll in a tone as smooth as cream.

“The fact that we are both Americans,” said the mayor, “quite justifies my insisting upon being of service to you. Do you understand?”

“Quite, Mr. Ogilvie,” said the low, creamy voice.

“Good!” said the mayor. “Now, I want to help you and there is no earthly reason why you should not let me. You need help and you know it; this place is not like a grave because you like it so, neither is that one candle there because a stronger light is unpleasant to your eyes.”

“No, indeed, Mr. Ogilvie. The place is cold because my money and credit are all gone.” Carroll's deep voice was limpid as a mountain lake. Her head was in the shadow, and the mayor noticed that her eyes were almost closed as she looked at him and that the black eyelashes drew a dark line across her pale face. She had drawn the coat a little more snugly about her shoulders.

“I am very glad,” said the mayor, “that you are so sensible about it. I was sure that you would be. If you were lost in the woods or shipwrecked on an island or adrift in an open boat you would not refuse assistance—and this is much the same thing.”

“Only Paris is rather less kind than the woods or the island or the sea, Mr. Ogilvie.”

“I can readily believe it. Now let us be practical, Miss Winn, and face the situation. How do you stand with your landlord?”

“Very, very badly, Mr. Ogilvie,” answered the girl in a tone of such mocking sadness that Ogilvie's straight brows knit and he glanced at her sharply. Carroll tilted her chin slightly upward and laughed, a merry laugh of genuine amusement; then it ceased and she leaned forward and looked into the mayor's face with her childish, wondering expression.

“Forgive me, Mr. Ogilvie,” she said softly. “I do not mean to be inappreciative.”

“Then,” said the mayor, “you will let me help you?”

“You have helped me, Mr. Ogilvie.”

“Oh, but—you know what I mean. Let me change all this.” He waved his hand about the apartment. “I'll start right now, with light and heat.” He turned bruskly.

Carroll slipped past him and stood with her back against the closed door, her palms pressing against it, the small, well-shaped fingers spread, and the dim candle-light flickering on her face. The mayor watched her in surprise.

“Wait, Mr. Ogilvie!” Something in the breathlessness of the low-pitched voice set his heart to beating fast. He stared.

“Because you are kind and generous and open-hearted, Mr. Ogilvie, you must not take it too much for granted that other people are that way also. I am not. I should love to have you help me—but I can't.”

“Why can't you?”

“I doubt if I could make you understand.” She looked at him curiously. “You see, you are utilitarian, a practical person, and I am” She hesitated.

“An artist?”

“More than that,” said Carroll slowly. “I am a genius!” She laughed and stared at him with parted lips.

“I believe it,” answered the mayor. “But that is all the more reason for protecting yourself against physical dangers. Geniuses are too rare to risk pneumonia.”

“Now you are trying to humor me. You don't understand; I really can paint. I have just discovered it myself; and before long, other people will discover it, and then all of this”—she swayed her head in a gesture which included her neck, shoulders, and all her lithe body to the waist—“will be a dim, unpleasant memory; yet not so very unpleasant, Mr. Ogilvie!”

The mayor watched her, fascinated. Her long eyes looked almost yellow in the candle-light; the moment before they had held the tone of black velvet. Her gesture reminded him of that of a leopard pacing its cage.

“I am very glad,” he said. “I am sure that you have—genius. But as you say, that is all the more reason for being willing to let some worldling like myself”

“No,” said Carroll. “You can't understand. You see, Mr. Ogilvie, I have worked and slaved and suffered for it; and now, I have got it, I know. If I were an artistic failure, Mr. Ogilvie, I would not care that!” She snapped her fingers above her head. “But I am not a failure! I can paint! I know that I can paint!” The catlike intensity began to creep into her face, and her eyes blinked in the candle-light; her deep voice became a resonant purr. “I have done things! Big things! And I have done them all by myself and without help—and they are right here—in this studio! You may see for yourself if you like. I am not afraid to let anybody see them now, although they are still unfinished; too unfinished to let me accept assistance, Mr. Ogilvie. Do you see what I mean?”

“Vaguely,” muttered the mayor, his eyes fastened on her face.

“It is very simple. I am jealous of them. I don't want to share with a living soul. I have worked so for them, Mr. Ogilvie.” Her voice softened. “And if I were to take help now, to finish my work with a strength which came of outside aid, they would suffer for it! I know that they would. Because, you see, I would feel that almost at the top I had failed. I would be afraid to risk it, Mr. Ogilvie. All of this”—again the sweeping, feline gesture—“is so insignificant in comparison. I am strong as a—a panther from one of the swamps of my native state, Louisiana.”

“But if you were to fall ill?”

“That would mean failure, I am afraid. It is a race, Mr. Ogilvie.” She laughed.

“I understand what you mean,” said the mayor, “but I think that you are all wrong. You exaggerate the result of aid. Your art should be bigger than that; bigger than your pride, for after all it is purely pride. It should be above jealousy. It is not as if I were a painting master and offered to help you paint your picture.”

“Oh, but you don't understand in the least!” interrupted the girl. “And besides—you exaggerate my privation. What is a little cold and damp and dark and perhaps a little hunger now and then when I have this?”

With her swift, gliding step she was across the studio, had whipped up a great sheet of drawing-paper, and before the mayor realized her intent she had twisted it into a torch and thrust the end into the candle. The stuff flared up fiercely.

“Look, Mr. Ogilvie!” She stepped to the side of the easel which reared itself uncouthly from the spectral gloom filled with black, dancing shadows. “Look!”

Carroll whipped off the drapery from the canvas, then stepped lightly back, her head weaving from side to side, the torch swaying first here, then there, now up, now down, until the refraction pleased her. She glanced over her shoulder at the mayor.

“Come here—put your head close to mine—closer—so! Is the light right? You don't get the shine? Closer!”

Without taking her eyes from the canvas, her hand groped for him, fell upon his shoulder, and drew his head toward hers until her hair brushed his cheek. The cloak slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor.

“There!” she whispered. “Look! Do you like it? Do you see what I mean?”

The mayor caught his breath. Carroll's own face looked back at him from the canvas. Broad, fearless, masterly, the painting scorned all tricks of technique; the torch threw ragged splashes of shadow behind the masses of fresh paint flung on, each in its proper place, as if with the sweep of a broom. Ogilvie knew nothing of this; knew nothing of art, its technical details. It was the wonderful likeness that set his heart to pounding, the thrilling. life in this thing of paint and canvas. Carroll leaned toward him from the easel, breathing, pulsing, living; on her face was the baffling expression which had haunted his brain throughout the day; the wondering, waiting look which never failed to follow her swift, ecstatic laugh. The eyes were just beginning to widen, the lips to part, the white teeth to gleam above and below.

He leaned forward, staring; his cheek brushed that of the girl. Then, in his ear, he heard her gasp. The torch fell from her fingers, and instinctively he placed his foot upon it. The studio was plunged in a darkness which the dim candle-light could not clear, accustomed as their eyes had become to the blaze of the torch.

“What do you think of it?” she asked in a thrilling voice. “Isn't it good? Isn't it great? Have you ever seen anything like it? Have you? Have you? Have you?”

“It—it is wonderful—marvelous!”

Carroll laughed. “I had to paint myself. I had to. I couldn't afford a model, you see. I earned the paints to do it with by posing for a man whom I detest, although he can paint; a Frenchman named De Montbrison.”

“De Montbrison!” cried the mayor sharply.

“Yes; do you know him? But he doesn't matter!” There was a sharp impatience in the girl's voice. “I posed for his Tiphaine. He wanted to pay me in money, but I took paint!” She laughed again. “He is wild to see my picture.”

“Don't let him!” growled the mayor.

“I don't intend to. I know the sort he is, but he is rich and buys the best paint that there is to be had—and I needed it!” She was laughing almost constantly now—her joyous, boy's laugh, deep, rich, rollicking. “But now you understand, don't you? Now you see why I don't mind the dark and cold and all. I know that that is over there.” She pointed toward the easel. “And it takes the place of light and heat and food and friends—everything—and it's all mine!”

The mayor did not answer.

“You do understand, don't you?” asked the girl.

“Yes,” said the mayor slowly. “I understand.”

He walked to the table and stood staring at the candle; its flickering light brought out the fine, strong features and laid pleasing shadows across the lean cheeks and strong lines of the mouth and eyes. Carroll studied him covertly.

“Yes,” the mayor repeated. “I understand. And the more that I understand the more I think that you are wrong and wicked and careless to risk the source of such genius as that. For the genius is there! You could no more smother it than you could destroy matter. It startles you; you are not used to living with it; but you can't quench it as long as you are sound of mind and body. Your first duty now is to protect yourself against what might destroy this gift, and that is to be done with such humble tools as food and fire and clothes. Upon my soul!” He turned to the girl so fiercely that she shrank back, startled. “You claim to be a genius; perhaps you are, I don't know; but I do know that there is about one genius born every hundred years—and I bet that your feet are wet now! Answer me. Are your feet wet?”

“I—eh—yes.”

“There! that's it! I knew it! And have you had your dinner?”

“Eh—I—I”

“Don't you dare to fib to me!” The mayor stepped toward her and shook his finger in her face. “Is that the care you take of your God-given genius? Go and put on your coat!”

Carroll backed away, blinking at him like a cat. The mayor took a step toward her.

“Put on your coat!”

Still staring at him she reached for the coat and threw it about her shoulders.

“Now,” said the mayor, “I am going to have a fire made in here and warm you up. Have you got some dry shoes and stockings?”

“What?”

“I say—have you got some dry shoes and stockings? If you have not I will go out and get you some.”

“I—I—you will do nothing. What do you mean?”

The shock was passing, and as the girl's will, startled by the suddenness of his attack, slowly recovered itself, the mayor could feel her slipping away, from him. He made a desperate effort.

“Answer me!” he said sternly. “Have you some dry things? You are a foolish, wicked girl to risk your health in this way, and I am going to put a stop to it!” His resonant voice carried the rasp with which he addressed insubordinate workmen. “Tell me the truth!”

Even as he spoke he knew that he had failed. Carroll looked at him aslant—he knew the look—her dark lashes almost together, her mouth curving upward at the corners. Then she smiled slightly, and the ravishing upper lip rolled up in the middle and showed the white teeth, and her low voice held its creamy tone.

“You are a very masterful man, Mr. Ogilvie,” she said. “I have had a very narrow escape from blind obedience. In fact, you are the most masterful man that I have ever known.” She studied him curiously. “And yet you are good. The others have all been bad.”

Suddenly she caught her breath. Her voice broke. She stepped toward him and held out her hand.

“Thank you!” Her voice faltered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! You are good and I don't want you to think me ungrateful, and do please go. And don't worry about me, because it's not so bad as you think—only I am very, very tired. I have never been so tired, I think—and good night.”

It was then that the mayor, his own head in a whirl, made a fatal mistake on the side of chivalry, and went.

He stepped out and closed the door softly, and with a sudden overpowering fatigue began to climb the stairs. His heart was hammering and his head ached, and for the first time since he had left New York he felt physically exhausted. Worse, he felt mentally lifeless, dispirited, discouraged. Suddenly it occurred to him that he had encountered a will almost as strong as his own, and to make things worse he was not at all sure but that it might have been stronger.

Forest, toasting his slippers before the hearth, looked at him curiously as he entered. The look gathered volume.

“You got your answer, didn't you?” said he.

“Yes,” said the mayor, “I got it.” He sank heavily upon the divan. Presently he said:

“Paris is more intricate than South Fork.”

“No; really?”

“I think so.”

“You thought so before you saw her.”

“Well then, damn it, I know so!”

Forest poked the fire.

“She can paint,” said the mayor.

“Yes?”

“Yes. She showed me some of her work.”

“By lamplight?”

“No; she could not afford a lamp, so she showed it to me by the blaze of about five francs worth of drawing-paper.”

“She must really be an artist.”

“Worse than that. She is a genius.”

“It would need even a bigger bonfire than five francs worth of drawing-paper to convict her of that. Geniuses are like love; they are on the lips of millions and occur—sometimes.”

“Yes”

“She has done you no good,” observed Forest.

“Oh—I wish that I could go out and get drunk, or shoot up the town, or—something. She has put it all over me—and the more that I think about it the less I like it.”

“Then don't think about it.”

“I have to scratch the bite.”

“Animal!”

“Alas, yes!”

Forest leaned back and began to hum La Matchiche.

“Shut up, s'il vous plait!” said the mayor with a grin. “She says that she is not poor. She says that an artist sitting in the dark and cold with a masterpiece for company is less to be pitied than the sybarite who sits before a blazing hearth and contemplates over the rim of his glass—a failure. She did not say this, but she meant it.”

“Perhaps she is a genius, after all said Forest somberly.

“She says that a masterpiece is food and drink and dry stockings.”

Forest glanced instinctively across the room at a canvas on his easel. His eye swept the stack cf studies leaning against the wall. All were good, but not one, his soul assured him, could raise its struggling head above mediocrity.

“She is right,” he answered heavily.

The mayor lighted a pipe and the two smoked in silence. Finally the artist said:

“What was the answer?”

“What answer?”

“Why did she haunt your brain? Does she still?”

“Yes,” growled the mayor.

“And I presume that for the peace of your soul it will be necessary for you to make still another attempt to solve the problem?”

The mayor's head came around with a jerk.

“What in the devil are you driving at, Luce? I never want to see the girl again. She's turned me down hard; and if I went back there she'd turn me down harder. I really was sorry for her, although I didn't know it; but now I'm not!”

“No reason why you should be. I told you that.”

“I know you did. But now that I know her to be quite contented, there can be no further wish to—to try to help her.”

“Naturally. Last night you begrudged me my fire, this chair, my dry stockings, but”—the artist glanced about—“all of that is changed, because”—he looked quizzically at his friend—“you, don't see any masterpieces around here, do you, Tom?”

“No!” growled the mayor. “We were a lot of chumps to pity her. We might better have envied her.”

There was a long pause.

“To-morrow,” said Forest, “we are going out to Fontainebleau with the Jeromes in Hammersmith's car. We are to spend the night at the château of a mutual friend, the Count De Freyciné.”

“That's nice.”

“There is a stag-hunt, you know. You are to ride with Hélène.”

“That's nicer.”

“And,” continued Forest, “this will give you an excellent opportunity to—eh—become better acquainted.”

“Good!”

“Your tone is lacking in enthusiasm,” complained the artist.

“I'm tired, Luce.” The mayor's face was haggard. “As far as Miss Jerome is concerned, my mind is quite at rest. I want to marry her.”

“Of course you do. Why shouldn't you? Then shall I”

“Yes, please. I place myself quite in your hands.”

“Then I will broach the subject to mama.”

There was no answer.

“Did you not think that Mrs. Jerome was fascinating?” asked Forest.

The mayor did not reply. He was staring into the fire.

“Eh?” Forest's exclamation was sharp.

“What? What?” The mayor roused himself with some effort.

“I said—what's the matter, Tom? You look worried.”

“Oh, nothing. But I was just thinking, Luce, how awful it would be if that picture was not so—eh—wonderful, after all. What if I—if she”

“She! Who?” demanded Forest sharply.

“Who!” echoed the mayor. “Why,  Carroll Winn, of course!”

“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,” said Forest, “and we will catch a taximeter. I could not walk the across 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 Réveillon, you know.”

Bidding the others good-by, the two men got down. Forest motioned to a passing cab.

“Did you enjoy Fontainebleau?” asked the artist as they drove along.

“Very much; I 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 macadamized road.”

“And then have somebody turn the stag by hitting an auto-horn!”

“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; I 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 Hélène?” He 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, coloring 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 Forest.

“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 Hélène 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 angels passing overhead when they are together. So you really had 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”

“What 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 brightest and everybody was having the most fun” 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 curse 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—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. I 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 I wished that she were there, seeing the thing, enjoying it; don't you see? I had the feeling that she would have got so much more out of it than those others, even Hélène; 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 I hope to”—Forest's head was turned away and he was staring out of the window—“some day.”

“Eh—what? What did you say, 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, I must be in bad shape. Liver or gray-matter jaded—or something.” He gave a short laugh.

“Why? What happened?”

“Well—don't josh me, Luce—but do you remember a little incident when Hélène 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. “I 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 finished; has been too dark.' And at the same moment I saw that girl's face.”

“Carroll Winn?”

“Yes; and it was 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 chasse?”

“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 Hélène after being two days in her company; and you had been reasonably attentive.”

“Naturally, since I 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 I 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 call her my little artist!” said the mayor. “She isn't mine, and she is almost as tall as I am and her name is Miss Winn. She would look big enough to you and individual enough if you could 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, I am a believer in such things. The spiritual communication between two natures in accord”

“Oh, fudge!”

“I am, though. I have seen some very wonderful things in that line right here in the quartier.”

“Where?”

“In the Ecole de Psychologie, Rue St. André des Arts. Moreover, I made the acquaintance of a man during the cours who used himself to do some extraordinary things.”

“Such as?”

“One day when we were all in my studio I mentioned that I needed a certain model whom I 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 could 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 what I have been telling you about. I 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 Réveillon—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 organizations, 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—morbid ones. There is nothing to lay ghosts like cross-country riding or calomel. Voilà!”

“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 known 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 stairs 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, gray eyes. “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 locataire, 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 was not a fool he would have sold her out long ago! Of what value are her tattered 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 coming 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. I am 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 way. 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 had 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 center 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 gray 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 huissier, remarking that the one picture had realized 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 fiber 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! I 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 awakened 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 gray 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 somber, darkening sky. Faint, multi-colored lights began to spark and flash and twinkle against the swimming grayness 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.

“Réveillon! 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!”

He 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 powerless 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 realized 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 color slowly returned and the strong, trained features assumed a hard smile.

“Yes, Luce, I have learned some-thing 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 body and soul and my hope of heaven to have saved her from this; and all of the time I was gawping around like a brainless fool and never knew it.”

He pulled himself up abruptly and laughed.

“Look, Luce!” He pointed to the easel at which the artist had not yet glanced. “There she is. Do you wonder? Look at her! That is herself, in image and execution. The soul of genius 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 slightly 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 pale, and the mayor realized that he had been holding his own breath during the inspection. Both breathed deeply again.

“You 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. I think”—he looked again at the portrait and a wistfulness 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 my life—to have reached such a heights!”

“Yes, Luce, so would I; so would anybody! Look at that face! Was there ever one like it? Can't you 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 swimming 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 Réveillon; many people were abroad; they could not say how she was dressed—voilà!

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 he had sat in the cab, leaning rigidly forward, his eyes searching the hurrying crowd.

“Isn't it maddening, Luce?” he 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—“I 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 Médecine 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 is 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 crank. Be careful not to say anything at which he could take offense, such as a doubt of his powers or anything like that. If you do he will not only refuse 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,” said the artist, “permit me to introduce my friend, Mr. Ogilvie.”

The Pole proffered a large, sinewy hand. The mayor murmured something perfunctory and then glanced about the room.

It was 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 colors 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. In 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 I 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.

“I 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 unhypnotizable; 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 hypnotizing 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 portières, disclosing a dark interior.

“Enter, if you please,” he said. The mayor did so.

“Before we proceed,” said the doctor, “I 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—I 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 portières 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 centered 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 center, 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. He 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 portières 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 I?” said the mayor contemptuously. “Do you know what I 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 saw Carroll Winn, dressed in a gorgeous sort of gown, sitting at a table in a café, a glass of champagne in front of her, and thatthe 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 café opposite a man in evening dress who is known to be the most dissolute man in Paris!”

The Pole's eyes flashed. His mustache 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 face.

“Eh, what's that?” asked Ogilvie, his voice carrying a soft songlike lilt. “What is that you say, doctor?”

“I say that when you know Paris a little better, and woman a great deal better, Mr. Ogilvie,” sneered the doctor, “you will learn that it is no 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—the morgue!”

The mayor leaned forward, his eyes mere slits. A strangling noise gurgled in his throat.

“You liar!” he snarled. 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 I haven't. He's hypnotized now, damn him!”

“Tom! Tom!”

“Oh, come on, Luce. Your friend's a humbug! He's worse; he's a liar! Come on!”

He seized the artist by the shoulder, and 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, gnawing 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!”

The 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 outburst 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 café 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?” 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?”

“I could not say. Merci, m'steu'.”

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 fun had grown to be 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 shouting; and the waiters had just distributed the favors, and wonderful coiffures were capped with little hoods, while the men wore ridiculous papier-mâché imitations of battered hats. Beautifully gowned women, with the flushed 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! Chape-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-maché rabbit came flying from somewhere, struck 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, coloring. 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 chairs in an effort to reach Hammersmith's table.

“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 see!” 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 stanch Americanism,

As he started to speak his voice was drowned 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 chair.

“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 her 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?” he asked; then, noting the pallor of Ogilvie's face, his own sobered. “Feel badly? 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 close-packed mob of laughing people, it recurred to him that the 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. “I 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 shouts of laughter and clamorous bravas which greeted each fantastic step.

Before he had gained ten feet the 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 him 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.

“Walking?”

“Yes, 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 swirling 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 café. 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 the morgue!”

He had been to Montmartre; he had just left Maxim's; was it now to be—the morgue? A chill struck through 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 arc-light and turned toward the bridge.

In front of him swirled the Seine, black, 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 that 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 of 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 with 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 he 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 realization 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 I could save. But I don't think that I could have endured seeing the things that I 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 come 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 began 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 Carroll, “but while I was wandering about I 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 Réveillon night. Of course, I 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 crushing pain which seemed to come from without.

“Yes,” said Carroll, “it was wrong of me, of course. But, you see, Mr. Ogilvie, I was”

“What?” asked the mayor gently.

“I was—hungry!” The low voice faltered.

“Hungry!” The mayor started upright, and 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 I had told him why I went with him at all he would not have taken me there; but you see, he 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—I—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. “''Cocher! Ici! Ici! Cocher là!”''

A solitary cab came wandering out of the 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 been 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, and during the paroxysms he fought for his breath. Afterward, the crushing pain made him feel faint, but oddly the moment it had passed his mind ignored it.

Carroll's eyes were on him searchingly. They missed nothing even in the murk.

“Oh, but you are chilled,” she cried, and slipped out of her cloak. “You must let me wrap this about you.”

“Nonsense; put that on again.”

“You shall do as I tell you! Put down your hands—there—sit still, Mr. Ogilvie.”

“But—but” The mayor's teeth clenched and the words failed him. Each instant the deadly congestion was tightening its hold. The long fast, the nervous strain, the hot café, his overheated condition, and then the icy draft from the Seine had broken down the weakened defenses of his rugged strength.

“But let me tell you about your picture,” he began lifelessly, and without even wondering at the sudden weakness of will which permitted of his sitting passively while the girl wrapped her cloak about his neck and shoulders. “I bought it myself, you know.”

“Oh, that was good of you; but never mind the portrait, Mr. Ogilvie, never mind anything; don't talk; it hurts you to. I can tell by the sound of your 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.

“But I want to tell you,” muttered the mayor. “And anyway, I feel rather badly, somehow, as if I were going to faint or do something equally foolish, and I want to be sure that you are going to be all right. I seem to have caught a chill—and it's taken the strength out of me. Now will you please not argue”—the mayor was breathing in gasps—“and do as I say?”

“Oh, yes—yes—but please don't try to talk.”

“But I must tell you.” The mayor spoke through his clenched teeth. “You think that you have failed, but—it—is not so. A Jew picture-dealer bid a—a thousand—francs”—the words came with difficulty—“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 then you can pay—pay me back after you have seen him. Understand?”

Carroll took the pocketbook from his hand.

“Yes, yes, I 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 cab. 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 smoldered 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 handed 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, motionless. 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, “I 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 and pushed him gently back upon the pillows. There was a light in her amber-colored eyes which, weakened as he was, quite overawed the mayor.

“Lie down, Mr. Ogilvie,” she said, in her purring voice. “Lie down and do not speak. You are very ill, and I am 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 him down among the pillows. “Be good, please, and do as I say. Please, Mr. Ogilvie.”

Forest, returning later, worn and haggard and anxious, found a very sick man lying on the divan and a woman sitting at his head, and there was a look in her great, amber-colored eyes such as the artist had dreamed of but never seen on the face of any woman.

“Miss Winn!” he cried. “What is it? What has happened?”

The girl laid her finger to her lips, but the caution was unnecessary. Stifled in the grip of the enemy, the mayor 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 do not know, Mr. Forest,” she whispered, rising. “He overtook me on he bridge and stood there in the wind talking, and I was looking into the river, and it was a long time before 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 quickly, Mr. Forest?”

“I 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 mayor and stood for a moment contemplating the fine, flushed features of the unconscious man.

Then he turned and looked steadily at the girl.

Carroll was standing by the hearth, leaning 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 could 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 once the thought rushed upon him that there was a difference, a marvelous 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 new-found knowledge on the sensitive features, and a wave of color 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, reached 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 days 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?” The 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 rôle 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 getting 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 do 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-delirious; 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 yow 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 Maxim's, even before I looked up and saw his face over the heads of the 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. “I could hardly be expected to, could I? But I see what you mean.”

Carroll stared into the fire without answering. Presently she began to make a soft, warm little noise in her throat, hardly a hum, more of a purr, in fact. She stretched toward the blaze, and, half-twisting her lithe body in the chair, turned her shoulders and rested her cheek on her hand. Her dark lashes swept down. There had been no sleep for either 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 I do 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 cat, 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.

“I 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!” 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!”

And he tried to shut his ears to the sounds which came from the sick-room.

title: Her Masterpiece