e
banquet rather used me up."

He smiled, and Fairfax saw how he looked when he was more himself. His
hair, as the water dried on it, was reddish, he was clean-shaven, his
teeth were white and sound, his smile agreeable.

"Now, if I hadn't been drunk, I shouldn't have come back to the
Universe. I was due a quarter of a mile away from here. They'll keep me
when they find me. I haven't paid my bill here to Madame Poulet for six
weeks. But they are decent, trustful sort of people and can't believe a
chap won't ever pay. But I was fool enough to leave my father's cable in
my room and Madame Poulet had it translated. I grant you it wasn't
encouraging for a creditor, Rainsford."

Antony heard his name used for the first time, the R's rolled and made
the most of. It seemed to bring back the dead.

"Listen to the cable," said the communicative young man: "'You can go to
the devil. Not a cent more from me or your mother.'"

Fairfax, who was tying his cravat, turned around and smiled, and he
limped over to his visitor.

"It's not the most friendly telegram I ever heard," he said.

"Step-father," returned the other briefly. "She knows nothing about
it--my mother, I mean. I've been living on her money here for two years
and over and it's gone; but before I take a penny from him ..."

"I understand," said Fairfax, going back to the mirror and beginning to
brush his hair.

"Did you ever have a mother?" asked the red-haired young man with a
queer look on his face, and added, "I see you have. Well, let's drop the
subject, then, but you may discuss step-fathers all you choose."

Fairfax, for he was not Rainsford, yet, took a fancy to his visitor, a
fancy to his rough, deep voice; he liked the eyes that were clearing
fast, liked the kindly spirited face and the ready, boy-like confidence.

"What are you up to in Paris?" he asked Dearborn, regarding him with
interest.

"I'm a playwright," said the other simply.

CHAPTER V

"A playwright," Fairfax repeated softly. If Dearborn had said "Ali
Baba," Fairfax would scarcely have been more surprised.

"You must know the Bohemian life here?" he asked, "even possibly know
some artists?"

"Well, rather," drawled his companion; "I live among them. I don't know
a single chap who isn't doing something, burning the midnight oil or
using the daylight in a studio."

As Dearborn spoke, Fairfax, looking at him more observantly, saw
something in his countenance that responded t