?"

A convulsive spasm distorted the livid face; the eye-balls rolled, the
death-rattle sounded. With a smothered cry of terror Lady Kingsland
lifted the agonized head in her arms.

"Quick, Jasper--the horoscope! Where?"

"My safe--study--secret spring--at back! Oh, God, have mercy--"

The clock struck sharply--twelve. A vivid blaze of lambent lightning
lighted the room; the awful death-rattle sounded once more.

"Beware of Zenith's grandchild!"

He spoke the words aloud, clear and distinct, and never spoke again.

* * * * * *

Many miles away from Kingsland Court, that same sultry, oppressive
midsummer night a little third-rate theater on the Surrey side of
London was crowded to overflowing. There was a grand spectacular
drama, full of transformation scenes, fairies, demons, spirits of air,
fire, and water; a brazen orchestra blowing forth, and steam, and
orange-peel, and suffocation generally.

Foremost among all the fairies and nymphs, noted for the shortness of
her filmy skirts, the supple beauty of her shapely limbs, her
incomparable dancing, and her dark, bright beauty, flashed La Sylphine
before the foot-lights.

The best _danseuse_ in the kingdom, and the prettiest, and invested
with a magic halo of romance, La Sylphine shone like a meteor among
lesser stars, and brought down thunders of applause every time she
appeared.

The little feet twinkled and flashed; the long, dark waves of hair
floated in a shining banner behind her to the tiny waist; the pale,
upraised face--the eyes ablaze like black stars! Oh, surely La
Sylphine was the loveliest thing, that hot June night, the gas-light
shone on!

The fairy spectacle was over--the green drop-curtain fell. La Sylphine
had smiled and dipped and kissed hands to thundering bravos for the
last time that night, and now, behind the scenes, was rapidly
exchanging the spangles and gossamer of fairydom for the shabby and
faded merino shawl and dingy straw hat of every-day life.

"You danced better than ever to-night, Miss Monti," a tall demon in
tail and horns said, sauntering up to her. "Them there pretty feet of
your'n will make your fortune yet, and beat Fanny Ellsler!"

"Not to mention her pretty face," said a brother fiend, removing his
mask. "Her fortune's made already, if she's a mind to take it.
There's a gay young city swell a-waiting at the wings to see you home,
Miss Monti."

"Is it Maynard, the banker's son?"