s!"' murmured the theatrical
Carl. 'I must humour him. Never mind, old man. Suppose she is! what does
it matter?'

'Oh, Carl! Carl!' cried the other, turning upon him and gripping him by
both shoulders. 'I never loved another woman, and I never can. I would
have built my hopes of Heaven upon her truth.'

Carl began to think there was something in it.

'You mean that Mademoiselle Helene is Miss Allen?'

'Yes, I said so.'

'And that you knew her?'

'We were sweethearts when we were children. We were engaged to be
married two years ago. Would you believe it, Carl? would you believe it?
I had a letter from her only this morning dated from the old place in
the country. Think of the cunning perfidy of it!'

'How long can she have known Holt?' asked Carl, rather to himself than
Christopher.

'Why, how can I tell?' said the musician, groaning. 'She has deceived me
all along.'

There was no present consolation possible, and Carl had the sense to
see it. He lit a pipe and watched his unhappy friend sympathetically.
Christopher went up and down the room exclaiming here and there against
the perfidy of woman. There came an imperious summons at the door.

'Don't let him in, whoever it is,' said Christopher.

Somebody kicked the door and roared 'Rubach!'

'It's Milford,' said Carl; 'the manager. There's going to be a row. A
bit of a row will do you good, my poor fellow. I shall let him in.'

So said, so done. Enter Milford the lordly, in a towering rage, followed
by Holt, evidently disposed to appease his manager's wrath.

'I have called,' said the manager, blowing hard and fixing a savage eye
on Carl, 'to know what the devil you mean, sir, by turning the theatre
into a bear-garden?'

'My good sir----' said Carl with Continental affability.

'Don't "good sir" me, sir,' cried the manager. 'What the devil do you
mean, sir?'

'This is a matter for commiseration, sir, not for anger,' Carl began.

Then the great man began to swear, and did it well and fluently, with
gusto. When he had done, he collected himself and shook his fist at Carl
with a final admonition.

'Don't you come near my theatre again, you--you foreign rascal.'

'It is I who am to blame,' said Christopher, 'and not he. It was I who
played for him, and who--in short, I am to blame.'

The manager glared speechlessly for a moment, and then gasped,

'Explain, sir.'

'Mr. Rubach,' said Christopher, 'had sprained his wrist by a fall this
evening. He