he step of the cab, his fingers on the handle of the
door, his face, flushed from his run and from the cold, looked
pleasantly young. The boy's heart went out to him in a glow of
comradeship.

"No, I will remain here. But I--I want to see you soon again. May I?"

"May you? Say the word! To-morrow? To-night?" The cab was snorting
impatience; Blake opened the door and stepped inside.

The boy colored. "To-night?"

"Right! To-night it shall be! To-night we'll scale the heights." He held
out his hand.

Max took it smilingly. "You have not asked me where I live."

"Never thought of it! Where is it?"

"The Hotel Railleux, in the rue de Dunkerque."

"Not a very festive locality! But sufficient for the day, eh? Well, I'll
be outside the door of the Hotel Railleux at nine o'clock."

"At nine o'clock. I shall be awaiting you."

"Right again! Good-bye! It's been a good morning."

Max smiled, a smile that seemed to have caught something of the sun's
brightness, something of the promise of spring trembling in the pale
sky.

"It has been a good morning. I shall never forget it."

Blake laughed. "Don't say that, boy! We'll oust it with many a better."

He released the boy's hand and gave the address to the chauffeur. There
was a moment's pause, a rasp and wrench of machinery, and the willing
little cab flew off toward the nearest bridge.

Max stood watching it, obsessed by a strange sensation. This morning he
had been utterly alone; this morning the fair, cold face of Paris had
been immobile and speculative. Now a miracle had come to pass; the
coldness had been swept aside and the beauty, the warm, palpitating
humanity had shone into his eyes, dazzling him--fascinating him.

CHAPTER VIII

Nine o'clock found Max waiting in the rue de Dunkerque. Paris,
consummate actress that she is, was already arraying herself for the
nightly appeal to her audience of pleasure-seekers. Like a dancer in her
dressing-room, she but awaited the signal to step forth into the glamour
of the footlights; the rouge was on her lips, the stars shone in her
hair, the jewelled slippers caressed her light feet. Even here, in the
colorless region of the Gare du Nord, the perfumed breath of the
courtesan city crept like the fumes of wine; the insidious sense of
nocturnal energy swept the brain, as the traffic jingled by and the
crowds upon the footpaths thronged into the _cafes_ and overflowed into
the roadway.

To the boy, walking slow