is silk
hat. "The Fraeulein is taking her usual luncheon at the Restaurant
Bavaria, and I agreed to notify her of your wishes, as she may
travel, and would be willing to wait for the arrival of my Vienna
importation. I will be very glad to present you to her."

The world took on a new brightness as Randall Clayton passed out
of the shop with the dealer. He scarcely dared to trust himself to
bring up the subject now nearest his heart.

But the careful directions of Mr. Fritz Braun had given Lilienthal
his cue. The dealer babbled on of pleasant trivial things as they
stemmed the tide of the crowded streets. "I hope that Fraeulein
Gluyas will soon appear in opera and achieve the success which she
deserves. She is really here incognito, and spends all her time
in private musical practice at Chickering Hall and the study of
languages."

"Why this secrecy?" asked Clayton.

"Ah! My dear sir! These are the ways of impresarios. If Grau does
not secure a certain great operatic star with whom he has quarrelled,
then Fraeulein Gluyas will be brought out with a great flourish of
trumpets under a stage name to be selected later. She will then
be heralded as a 'wonder of the world.' It will pay Grau, and he
will also have his revenge!"

"And if the great star relents?" smilingly asked Clayton, as they
neared the Restaurant Bavaria.

"Then," cheerfully answered the dealer, "the lady will make a grand
concert tour, adequately supported. It is for that contingency
she is studying English ballads and the language."

Clayton suddenly remembered the unromantic address of 192 Layte
Street, Brooklyn. "Fraeulein Gluyas resides in Brooklyn?" he said,
with a fine air of carelessness.

Lilienthal's eyes swept obliquely the young man's distrustful face.
"Fraeulein Gluyas ordered the picture sent to the rooms of her
music master, 192 Layte Street, Brooklyn. Poor old Raffoni was once
a world-wide star, a velvet tenor. Now he is literally a voice maker,
a master of technique for Maurice Grau. The Hungarian nightingale
studies there, and only takes her hall practice here in the off
season, in Chickering's empty salon. There is a jealous professional
mystery in this secrecy. The summer is the opera's off season,
just as the winter is the same for the great circus and travelling
shows. The hardest work is thus veiled from the public. The impresario
is always a wily individual."

"And the lady's real residence?" impatiently queried th