an in love, a man in love"--until a flash of temper sent my
lions scurrying and snarling into a pack, where they huddled and
growled, staring at me with yellow, mutinous eyes.

Yet, strangely, the greater the risk, and the plainer to me that my
lions were slipping out of my control, the more my apathy increased,
until even Byram began to warn me.

Still I never felt the slightest physical fear; on the contrary, as
my irritation increased my disdain grew. It seemed a monstrous bit of
insolence on the part of these overgrown cats to meditate an attack on
me. Even though I began to feel that it was only a question of time
when the moment must arrive, even though I gradually became certain
that the first false move on my part would precipitate an attack, the
knowledge left me almost indifferent.

That morning, as I left the training-cage--where, among others, Kelly
Eyre stood looking on--I suddenly remembered Sylvia Elven and her
message to Eyre, which I had never delivered.

We strolled towards the stables together; he was a pleasant,
clean-cut, fresh-faced young fellow, a man I had never known very
well, but one whom I was inclined to respect and trust.

"My son," said I, politely, "do you think you have arrived at an age
sufficiently mature to warrant my delivering to you a message from a
pretty girl?"

"There's no harm in attempting it, my venerable friend," he replied,
laughing.

"This is the message," I said: "_On Sunday the book-stores are
closed in Paris._"

"Who gave you that message, Scarlett?" he stammered.

I looked at him curiously, brutally; a red, hot blush had covered his
face from neck to hair.

"In case you asked, I was to inform you," said I, "that a Bretonne
at Point Paradise sent the message."

"A Bretonne!" he repeated, as though scared.

"A Bretonne!"

"But I don't know any!"

I shrugged my shoulders discreetly.

"Are you certain she was a Bretonne?" he asked. His nervousness
surprised me.

"Does she not say so?" I replied.

"I know--I know--but that message--there is only one woman who could
have sent it--" He hesitated, red as a pippin.

He was so young, so manly, so unspoiled, and so red, that on an
impulse I said: "Kelly, it was Mademoiselle Elven who sent you the
message."

His face expressed troubled astonishment.

"Is that her name?" he asked.

"Well--it's one of them, anyway," I replied, beginning to feel
troubled in my turn. "See here, Kelly, it's not my business