tent of her punishment, must now be writhing under a second
humiliation and disappointment. He did not care to see her anguish, but
he did care to hear of the new effort that would undoubtedly be made to
find the lost husband. Curran would know. He met him that afternoon on
the street near his own house.

"Yes, I'm back in the old business," he said proudly; "the trip home so
freshened me that I feel like myself again. Besides, I have my own home,
here it is, and my wife lives with me. Perhaps you have heard of her, La
Belle Colette."

"And seen her too ... a beautiful and artistic dancer."

"You must come in now and meet her. She is a trifle wild, you know, and
once she took to drink; but she's a fine girl, a real good fellow, and
worth twenty like me. Come right in, and we'll talk business later."

La Belle Colette! The dancer at a cheap seaside resort! The wild
creature who drank and did things! This shrewd, hard fellow, who faced
death as others faced a wind, was deeply in love and happy in her
companionship. What standard of womanhood and wifehood remained to such
men? However, his wonder ceased when he had bowed to La Belle Colette in
her own parlor, heard her sweet voice, and looked into the most
entrancing eyes ever owned by a woman, soft, fiery, tender, glad, candid
eyes. He recalled the dancer, leaping like a flame about the stage. In
the plainer home garments he recognized the grace, quickness, and gaiety
of the artist. Her charm won him at once, the spell which her rare kind
have ever been able to cast about the hearts of men. He understood why
the flinty detective should be in love with his wife at times, but not
why he should continue in that state. She served them with wine and
cigars, rolled a cigarette for herself, chatted with the ease and
chumminess of a good fellow, and treated Arthur with tenderness.

"Richard has told me so much of you," she explained.

"I have so admired your exquisite art," he replied, "that we are already
friends."

"Que vous etes bien gentil," she murmured, and her tone would have
caressed the wrinkles out of the heart of old age.

"Yes, I'm back at the old game," said Curran, when they got away from
pleasantry. "I'm chasing after Tom Jones. It's more desperate than ever.
His old aunt died some days back, and left Tom's wife a dollar, and
Tom's son another dollar."

"I can fancy her," said Colette with a laugh, "repeating to herself that
magic phrase, two dollars, for