ning to eject their throngs, and
outside one of them, where a popular comedy had celebrated its
three-hundred-and-fiftieth performance, the press of cabs and private
cars was so great that M. Max found himself delayed within sight of the
theater foyer.

Those patrons of the comedy who had omitted to order vehicles or who did
not possess private conveyances, found themselves in a quandary tonight,
and amongst those thus unfortunately situated, M. Max, watching the
scene with interest, detected a lady whom he knew--none other than the
delightful American whose conversation had enlivened his recent journey
from Paris--Miss Denise Ryland. She was accompanied by a charming
companion, who, although she was wrapped up in a warm theater cloak,
seemed to be shivering disconsolately as she and her friend watched
the interminable stream of vehicles filing up before the theater, and
cutting them off from any chance of obtaining a cab for themselves.

M. Max acted promptly.

"Drive into that side turning!" he directed the cabman, leaning out of
the window. The cabman followed his directions, and M. Max, heedless of
the inclement weather, descended from the cab, dodged actively between
the head lamps of a big Mercedes and the tail-light of a taxi, and stood
bowing before the two ladies, his hat pressed to his bosom with one
gloved hand, the other, ungloved, resting upon the gold knob of the
malacca.

"Why!" cried Miss Ryland, "if it isn't... M. Gaston! My dear ... M.
Gaston! Come under the awning, or"--her head was wagging furiously--"you
will be... simply drowned."

M. Max smilingly complied.

"This is M. Gaston," said Denise Ryland, turning to her companion, "the
French gentleman... whom I met... in the train from... Paris. This is
Miss Helen Cumberly, and I know you two will get on... famously."

M. Max acknowledged the presentation with a few simple words which
served to place the oddly met trio upon a mutually easy footing. He was,
par excellence, the polished cosmopolitan man of the world.

"Fortunately I saw your dilemma," he explained. "I have a cab on the
corner yonder, and it is entirely at your service."

"Now that... is real good of you," declared Denise Ryland. "I think
you're... a brick."...

"But, my dear Miss Ryland!" cried Helen, "we cannot possibly deprive M.
Gaston of his cab on a night like this!"

"I had hoped," said the Frenchman, bowing gallantly, "that this most
happy reunion might not be allowed