nter maintained. "I would much rather go. Events
under this roof have a trick of being a little too dramatic."

Laughter from the clergyman, the financier, and the danseuse, greeted
the conclusion of a story with which the theatrical manager had
attempted to relieve the strain. Monsieur Dupont drew Tranter still
further back.

"This Mademoiselle Manderson--do you know her?"

"No," Tranter replied. "I've never heard of her. I suppose she is some
new friend of Copplestone's. If she is really engaged to him, I don't
think she is altogether to be envied."

Monsieur Dupont's glance found Mrs. Astley-Rolfe.

"No," he remarked softly--"I do not think she is."

Two heavy curtains at the extreme end of the room were drawn apart, and
the figure of a man appeared between them--a tall, thick-set man, in
full evening-dress, with a large white flower in his button-hole. For a
moment he stood still, looking intently down the room.

"Copplestone," Tranter whispered to his companion.

"_Mon Dieu_," muttered Monsieur Dupont.

It was the face of a fanatic--wonderful, fascinating, cruel--a fanatic
who neither feared God nor regarded man--an infinite egotist. The fires
of a great distorted soul smoldered in his eyes. The broad, lofty
forehead proclaimed a mind that might have placed him among the rulers
of men--but instead he was little above the level of a clown. The
destinies of a nation might have rested in the hands that he turned only
to selfish fantasy. The whole appearance of him, arresting and almost
awe-inspiring as it undoubtedly was, had in it the repulsiveness of the
unnatural--and, with that, all the tragedy of pitiful waste.

To-night, he confronted his guests in an attitude, and with an air, of
triumph. But as Mrs. Astley-Rolfe turned quickly to him with something
of a challenge in her bearing, a faint mocking smile appeared and
lingered for a moment on his face. Then he moved aside, his hand on the
curtains.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said deliberately, "permit me to present you
to my fiancee--Miss Christine Manderson."

He drew the curtains apart.

"_Mon Dieu_," said Monsieur Dupont again.

A half-strangled sob came from the lips of Mrs. Astley-Rolfe. Tranter
uttered an exclamation. The danseuse, the clergyman, and the theatrical
manager burst into vigorous applause.

Framed in the darkness behind him was the white form of a woman, of
transcendent loveliness. In the soft light it seemed almost a celestial