aw it so clearly. Oh, don't be sad because you have
pulled down the pillars! It isn't so very long before the morning."

He passed his arm around her and gripped her fingers tightly. So they
were sitting when, by and by, Selingman burst into the room.

CHAPTER XXXV

Selingman was once more entirely his old self. He staggered into the
room with a tin of biscuits under one arm, and three bottles of hock
under the other, all of which he deposited noisily upon the round table
in the middle of the room.

"I am the prince of caterers," he declared. "I surpass myself. Come
out of the shadows, you dreamer. There is work to be done, food to be
eaten, wine to be drunk."

From his left-hand pocket he produced three candles, which he placed at
intervals along the mantelpiece and lit. Then for the first time he saw
Julia.

"Ah," he cried, "our inspiration! Congratulate yourself, dear Miss
Julia. After all, you are going to dine or sup, or whatever meal you
may choose to call it. Behold!"

From his other pocket he produced two great jars of potted meat, a jar
of jam, a handful of miscellaneous knives and forks, and a corkscrew.

"I have found an intelligent person here," he confided to them. "He has
shown me the way to the wine cellar. Only the landlord and he are
permitted to fetch wine. They fear a raid. Niersteiner, of a
reasonable vintage."

"I will fetch Aaron," Julia said as she left the room.

"The girl worships you, and you're a beast to her," Selingman exclaimed,
his eyes fixed upon the door through which she had vanished. "A man,
indeed! A creature of wood and sawdust! Listen!"

His hand flashed out, his hand which grasped still the corkscrew.

"Listen, you man from the clouds," he continued. "I shall rob you of
her. I adore her. To-day she may think me merely fat and eccentric.
Don't rely upon that. I have the gift when I choose. I can tell fairy
tales, I can creep a little way into her mind and fill her brain with
delicate fancies, build images there and destroy them, play softly upon
the keynote of her emotions, until one day she will wake up and what
will have happened? She will be mine!"

He banged the table with the bottle of wine he was holding. Then, with
great care and accuracy, he drew the cork.

"Your health!" he cried, raising his glass. "Ah, no! I have not sipped
the wine. I change the toast. To Julia!"

Maraton rose to his feet, and turned his back upon the gloomy darkness
which brooded