s faded from the excited lover's mind as
he saw the portly form of Madam Raffoni lingering in the darkened
hallway of the ground-floor entrance.

There were tears in the woman's eyes as she sobbed, "She is dying!
Kommen sie schnell!"

The golden daylight turned to darkness before Clayton's eyes, as
he reeled and staggered.

Then, a mental flash of hope allured him.

"Where?" he hoarsely cried. The woman's jargon made plain that the
beautiful singer still lay in the darkened rooms whither his loving
arms had borne her.

"The carriage, yes; my God, we must hurry!" was Clayton's first
returning thought; and then, motioning to the woman to follow, the
cashier darted along Fourteenth Street.

He was already within the vehicle when Leah Einstein timidly
entered.

"To the Fulton Ferry. Hurry!" called out the excited Clayton, as
the burly policeman drove away a knot of "extra"-peddling urchins.

"I can easily reach the bank by two o'clock; they never shut the side
doors till three," murmured Clayton, as his eyes rested upon the
Russia-leather portmanteau. He instinctively gripped his revolver.
It was all right.

And then, with a sinking heart, he essayed to gain some connected
story of the Magyar songbird's grave peril.

But, the woman sobbing there was all too overcome for a connected
story.

There was only death in the air--there was the open grave yawning
for the woman he loved, and the brightness had gone out of Randall
Clayton's life forever when, with white lips, he asked himself,
"Will we be in time? Irma! My God! Irma, my own darling!"

He had only time to dismiss the carriage and drag Madame Raffoni
on the ferry-boat when the chains barred out a score of the rushing
crowd.

Twenty minutes later, his heart beating a funeral knell, Randall
Clayton, portmanteau in hand, passed within the portals of the old
brownstone mansion. As the woman softly closed the door, which she
had opened with a pass-key, she laid her finger on her lip.

Then Clayton, on tip-toe, stole softly after her into the darkened
chamber where a white-robed form lay motionless on the great canopied
bed.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE STRANGE TUG'S VOYAGE.

"Dead, dead, my darling!" almost shrieked Randall Clayton as he cast
himself down on his knees at the side of the woman whose faintly
fluttering eyelids alone told of the vital spark of life. The dark
eyes of Madame Raffoni gleamed pityingly as she drew the young man,
almos