uttering in nervous gestures.

"Something's up," grumbled Heywood, "when the doctor forgets to pose."

Behind Chantel, as he wheeled, heaved the gray bullet-head and sturdy
shoulders of Gilly.

"Alone?" called the padre. "Why, where's the Mem?"

He came up with evident weariness, but replied cheerfully:--

"She's very sorry, and sent chin-chins all round. But to-night--Her
journey, you know. She's resting.--I hope we've not delayed
the concert?"

"Last man starts it!" Heywood sprang up, flung open a battered piano,
and dragged Chantel to the stool. "Come, Gilly, your forfeit!"

The elder man blushed, and coughed.

"Why, really," he stammered. "Really, if you wish me to!"

Heywood slid back into his chair, grinning.

"Proud as an old peacock," he whispered to Rudolph. "Peacock's voice,
too."

Dr. Chantel struck a few jangling chords, and skipping adroitly over
sick notes, ran a flourish. The billiard-players joined the circle, with
absent, serious faces. The singer cleared his throat, took on a
preternatural solemnity, and began. In a dismal, gruff voice, he
proclaimed himself a miner, deep, deep down:--

"And few, I trow, of my being know,
And few that an atom care!"

His hearers applauded this gloomy sentiment, till his cheeks flushed
again with honest satisfaction. But in the full sweep of a brilliant
interlude, Chantel suddenly broke down.

"I cannot," he declared sharply. As he turned on the squealing stool,
they saw his face white and strangely wrought. "I had meant," he said,
with painful precision, "to say nothing to-night, and act as--I cannot.
Judge you, what I feel."

He got uncertainly to his feet, hesitating.

"Ladies, you will not be alarmed." The four players caught his eye, and
nodded. "It is well that you know. There is no danger here, more than--I
am since disinfected. Monsieur Jolivet, my compatriot--You see, you
understand. Yes, the plague."

For a space, the distant hum of the streets invaded the room. Then
Heywood's book of music slapped the floor like a pistol-shot.

"You left him!" He bounced from his chair, raging. "You--Peng! Where's
my cap?"

Quick as he was, the dark-eyed girl stood blocking his way.

"Not you, Mr. Heywood," she said quietly. "I must go stay with him."

They confronted each other, man and woman, as if for a combat of will.
The outbreak of voices was cut short; the whole company stood, like
Homeric armies, watching two champions. Chantel, however,