bill
and said, "I perfectly understand. Madame already ordered the
breakfast on Saturday. The same apartment. And you can trust to
me." The suave politeness of the well-greased palm.

There was a mild-eyed wonder in the eyes of the dashing attaches
of the Astor Place Bank as Randall Clayton entered on this fateful
Monday morning. For, with that unconscious desire to please of the
lover, Clayton's attire bespoke an unaccustomed elegance.

And yet a discreet silence was observed as the sixty thousand
dollars was transferred, and the flying fingers of the lynx-eyed
clerks filled up the dozen drafts which Clayton impatiently awaited.

In his haste Clayton hailed a passing coupe, dashed away to
the office, and quickly snapping his door after delivering over
his trust, glided down the stairs. "To the Irving Place Theater,"
ordered the impatient lover, and then the minutes seemed hours till
he had paid off his man, and then, by Fourteenth Street, hastily
entered the darkened hallway of the Restaurant Bavaria.

He was but vaguely aware of the presence of Madame Raffoni, as he
bowed low before his hostess. The incognito diva was a dream of
beauty in her ravishing Viennese morning dress. Randall Clayton
drew a new courage from Fraeulein Irma's murmured remark, "Madame
Raffoni, unfortunately, speaks no English," and the young enthusiast
only noted that the ex-professional still possessed splendid eyes,
and showed the remains of a considerable personal beauty.

His whole cares fell away from him as Clayton joined in the merry
mood of his beautiful enchantress. The little dejeuner was a perfect
rapprochement, in the light-hearted happiness of the hour.

Clayton had cast aside all suspicion when he left the doors of the
Western Trading Company, and over the Liebfrauenmilch and Tokayer
he found a new eloquence. His Western stories, his European
experiences vastly interested the dark-eyed enchantress, and, led
on by the spell of those wistful eyes--Othello-like--he told her
the whole story of his life. For he stood before her, all unarmed
in his sudden love fever.

Two hours sped by in a lingering day dream, until, yielding to
his murmured entreaties, Irma Gluyas sat down at the piano, and
in thrilling half voice, sang him the songs of the far off Magyar
land.

As Merlin forgot his wisdom before the wily white-bosomed Vivien,
so did the stormy-hearted American yield to the charm of the woman
who sat there, with the choices