s assurance of a calm in political and criminal affairs
amounting almost to stagnation. It was out of season, and, though his
popularity was as great as ever, neither he nor his wife had any social
engagements; hence this evening at a music hall, which Peter, for his
part, was finding thoroughly amusing.

The place was packed--some said owing to the engagement of Andrea Korust
and his brother, others to the presence of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire
in her wonderful danse des apaches. The violinist that night had a great
reception. Three times he was called before the curtain; three times
he was obliged to reiterate his grateful but immutable resolve never to
yield to the nightly storm which demanded more from a man who has given
of his best. Slim, with the worn face and hollow eyes of a genius, he
stood and bowed his thanks, but when he thought the time had arrived, he
disappeared, and though the house shook for minutes afterwards, nothing
could persuade him to reappear.

Afterwards came the turn which, notwithstanding the furore caused by
Andrea Korust's appearance, was generally considered to be equally
responsible for the packed house--the apache dance of Mademoiselle
Sophie Celaire. Peter sat slightly forward in his chair as the curtain
went up. For a time he seemed utterly absorbed by the performance.
Violet glanced at him once or twice curiously. It began to occur to her
that it was not so much the dance as the dancer in whom her husband was
interested.

"You have seen her before--this Mademoiselle Celaire?" she whispered.

"Yes," said Peter, nodding, "I have seen her before."

The dance proceeded. It was like many others of its sort, only a little
more daring, a little more finished. Mademoiselle Celaire, in her
tight-fitting, shabby black frock, with her wild mass of hair, her
flashing eyes, her seductive gestures, was, without doubt, a marvelous
person. Peter, Baron de Grost, watched her every movement with absorbed
attention. When the curtain went down he forgot to clap. His eyes
followed her off the stage. Violet shrugged her shoulders. She was
looking very handsome herself in a black velvet dinner gown, and a hat
so exceedingly Parisian that no one had had the heart to ask her to
remove it.

"My dear Peter," she remarked, reprovingly, "a moderate amount of
admiration for that very agile young lady I might, perhaps, be inclined
to tolerate; but, having watched you for the last quarter of an hour, I
am bo