floor. With the aid of an enamel bucket, Mr. Abraham Levinsky filled the
bath.

Leaving him to his ablutions, let us glance around the dressing-room.
Although there was no easel in the studio, and no indication of artistic
activity, the dressing-room was well stocked with costumes. Two huge
dress-baskets were piled in one corner, and their contents hung upon
hooks around the three available walls. A dressing table, with a
triplicate mirror and a suitably shaded light, presented a spectacle
reminiscent less of a model's dressing-room than of an actor's.

At the expiration of some twenty-five minutes, the door of this
dressing-room opened; and although Abraham Levinsky had gone in, Abraham
Levinsky did not come out!

Carefully flicking a particle of ash from a fold of his elegant,
silk-lined cloak, a most distinguished looking gentleman stepped out
onto the bleak and dirty studio. He wore, in addition to a graceful
cloak, which was lined with silk of cardinal red, a soft black hat,
rather wide brimmed and dented in a highly artistic manner, and
irreproachable evening clothes; his linen was immaculate; and no valet
in London could have surpassed the perfect knotting of his tie. His
pearl studs were elegant and valuable; and a single eyeglass was swung
about his neck by a thin, gold chain. The white gloves, which fitted
perfectly, were new; and if the glossy boots were rather long in the
toe-cap from an English point of view, the gold-headed malacca cane
which the newcomer carried was quite de rigeur.

The strong clean-shaven face calls for no description here; it was the
face of M. Gaston Max.

M. Max, having locked the study door, and carefully tried it to make
certain of its security, descended the stairs. He peeped out cautiously
into the street ere setting foot upon the pavement; but no one was in
sight at the moment, and he emerged quickly, closing the door behind
him, and taking shelter under the newsagent's awning. The rain continued
its steady downpour, but M. Max stood there softly humming a little
French melody until a taxi-cab crawled into view around the Greek Street
corner.

He whistled shrilly through his teeth--the whistle of a gamin; and the
cabman, glancing up and perceiving him, pulled around into the turning,
and drew up by the awning.

M. Max entered the cab.

"To Frascati's," he directed.

The cabman backed out into Greek Street and drove off. This was the
hour when the theaters were begin