th every form of deep respect to the principals
had been equally simple.

I had even succeeded in placing a bouquet on the dressing-table of the
great tragedienne on my second visit to the theatre. Her dressing-room
door had been left ajar during that memorable fourth act which was to
see the consummation of my labours. I had the bouquet in my hand,
having brought it expressly for that purpose. I pushed open the door,
and found myself face to face with a young though somewhat forbidding
damsel, who peremptorily demanded what my business might be.

In order to minimise the risk of subsequent trouble, I had assumed the
disguise of a middle-aged Angliche--red side-whiskers, florid
complexion, a ginger-coloured wig plastered rigidly over the ears
towards the temples, high stock collar, nankeen pantaloons, a patch
over one eye and an eyeglass fixed in the other. My own sainted mother
would never have known me.

With becoming diffidence I explained in broken French that my deep
though respectful admiration of Mlle. Mars had prompted me to lay a
floral tribute at her feet. I desired nothing more.

The damsel eyed me coldly, though at the moment I was looking quite my
best, diffident yet courteous, a perfect gentleman of the old regime.
Then she took the bouquet from me and put it down on the
dressing-table.

I fancied that she smiled, not unkindly, and I ventured to pass the
time of day. She replied not altogether disapprovingly. She sat down
by the dressing-table and took up some needlework which she had
obviously thrown aside on my arrival. Close by, on the floor, was a
solid iron chest with huge ornamental hinges and a large escutcheon
over the lock. It stood about a foot high and perhaps a couple of feet
long.

There was nothing else in the room that suggested a receptacle for
jewellery; this, therefore, was obviously the safe which contained the
bracelet. At the self-same second my eyes alighted on a large and
clumsy-looking key which lay upon the dressing-table, and my hand at
once wandered instinctively to the pocket of my coat and closed
convulsively on the duplicate one which the soi-disant Jean Duval had
given me.

I talked eloquently for a while. The damsel answered in monosyllables,
but she sat unmoved at needlework, and after ten minutes or so I was
forced to beat a retreat.

I returned to the charge at the next performance of _Le Reve_, this
time with a box of bonbons for the maid instead of the bouque