th a
despairing clasp. "Swear to me that no harm shall come to him!"

Fritz Braun growled an assent. "Not a hand shall be laid on him. I
swear it!" And then, through falling tears, the Magyar witch gave
her word to do her master's bidding. She had glided from the room
before the man started, as the street door clashed and the roll
of wheels was heard. He poured out a draught of brandy and threw
himself into a chair. "One week more and I would be too late. I
must hoodwink her!"

BOOK II.

AN INSIDE RING.

CHAPTER VI.

DREAMING BY THE SEA.

Five o'clock on Thursday afternoon found Mr. Randall Clayton
hovering around the grounds of the more democratic Hotel Manhattan,
while the early birds of fashion sought the more pretentious splendor
of the Oriental.

There was an anxious look upon the young man's face, and deep hollows
under his eyes told of unaccustomed vigils. A couple of wandering
peris gazed wishfully at the hand bundle carefully enveloped in
silvery tissue paper. It was true that dark blue Russian violets,
the starry forget-me-not, and the peerless lilies of the valley were
therein hidden, but a keener emotion than expectant love shone in
the young man's haggard eyes.

He was anxiously gazing around for the now well known form of Madame
Raffoni. Clayton dared not exhibit himself before the couple of
hundred staring eyes upon the pavilion and broad porticos.

An unknown fear of being entrapped drove him restlessly about.

"Would to God that Jack Witherspoon had arrived!" muttered the
lover. "I may have the trap sprung on me at any moment. Another
week; a long, long week! And God knows what may not happen in that
time." Some burning fever gnawed at his unquiet heart, some veiled
danger weighed him down.

Clayton was waiting for the approach of the wife of that mysterious
musical director whom he had never seen.

A fortunate sort of lingua Franca had been patched up between the
unsuspicious Clayton and the dark-eyed duenna. A few words of
German, a little scattered French, and a bit of gibberish English
enabled the two to hold occasional brief and amiable intercourse.

"What language does she really speak?" often cried the baffled
Clayton to the mocking Irma.

"Only pure Czech, my comrade," laughed the diva. "And I will teach
you the softest language of Love myself when we wander back into
the blue Bohemian mountains to proud old Georgsburg. My father was
a Magyar, my moth