hey go to the
music-halls in Paris and London."

Draconmeyer nodded approval.

"Coulois was the name," he whispered to Selingman, as the man moved
away.

The place filled up slowly. Presently the supper was served. Selingman
ate with appetite, Draconmeyer only sparingly. The latter, however,
drank more freely than usual. The wine had, nevertheless, curiously
little effect upon him, save for a slight additional brightness of the
eyes. His cheeks remained pale, his manner distrait. He watched the
people enter and pass to their places, without any apparent interest.
Selingman, on the other hand, easily absorbed the spirit of his
surroundings. As the night wore on he drank healths with his neighbours,
beamed upon the pretty little Frenchwoman who was selling flowers, ate
and drank what was set before him with obvious enjoyment. Both men,
however, showed at least an equal interest when Mademoiselle Melita, in
Spanish costume, accompanied by a slim, dark-visaged man, began to
dance. Draconmeyer was no longer restless. He sat with folded arms,
watching the performance with a strangely absorbed air. One thing,
however, was singular. Although Selingman was confessedly a ladies' man,
his eyes, after her first few movements, scarcely rested for a moment
upon the girl. Both Draconmeyer and he watched her companion
steadfastly. When the dance was over they applauded with spirit.
Selingman sat up in his place, a champagne bottle in his hand. He
beckoned to the man, who, with a little deprecating shrug of the
shoulders, swaggered up to their table with some show of condescension.

"A chair for Monsieur Jean Coulois, the great dancer," Selingman
ordered, "a glass, and another bottle of wine. Monsieur Jean, my
congratulations! But a word in your ear. Her steps do not match yours.
It is you who make the dance. She has no initiative. She can do nothing
but imitate," he added.

The dancer looked at his host a little curiously. He was slightly built
and without an atom of colour. His black hair was closely cropped, his
eyes of sombre darkness, his demeanour almost sullen. At Selingman's
words, however, he nodded rapidly and seated himself more firmly upon
his chair. It was apparent that although his face remained
expressionless, he was gratified.

"They notice nothing, these others," he remarked, with a little wave of
the hand. "It is always the woman who counts. You are right, monsieur.
She dances like a stick. She has good calves