shifts for the factories, were not yet stirring. It was the dead hour, if any great city really reckons one.

In a small Seventh Avenue all-night eating-house he found a lingering handful of men, some supping, some breakfasting, some, perhaps, with no other place to go to, stolidly waiting for dawn. His eye flew to a table at the back of the room, over which hung the heavy head of a tall man with a mop of brown hair. Denys was down the room in two strides, his pouncing hand on the man's shoulder.

The fellow sprang to his feet, overturning his chair. In one bound he stood planted against the wall six feet away, shaking like a leaf, his wild eyes on the new-comer, his labored breath coming in gasps, his hand fumbling in his pocket, helpless to draw the pistol it sought for.

"I beg your pardon," apologized Denys. "I took you for a friend of mine."

He expected an avalanche of curses, but as the reprieve penetrated the man's dulled brain, with a quivering, animal cry he dropped on a seat and lapsed into the coma from which he had been startled.

Denys went out as unconcernedly as if he had not seen a human being frightened out of

all likeness to humanity. He never even wondered what the wretch had feared.

For the twentieth time he looked at his watch and then mechanically boarded a Thirty-fourth Street car for home, sickened not more with the sights of the night than with the stupidity that had sought Maurice in such places or company. Though he professed to pine for liberty, Tolna had never evinced a desire for license. Indeed, his halfhumorous complaints of the slavery of his life Denys had always taken as wholly humorous, that enthusiast being unable to perceive that the life of a musician could have drawbacks. The more he pondered the matter in the corner of the empty car, not with the excitement of his first fright, but with mature deliberation and in the light of his knowledge of Maurice, the less reason there seemed to suppose the disappearance intentional. The tenor was punctilio itself in never disappointing an audience. He was to sing on Saturday. It would be absolutely unlike him to risk a hoarseness now. He could not have gone to supper or to spend the night with a friend, for he knew no one in New York. Reluctantly, shudderingly, Denys was led to the hideous conviction of foul play.

CHAPTER XI

MISS FANNING MAKES A NEW FRIEND

ISS FANNING stood in her den, the

M2 big,

big, untidy room at the top of the house, where she worked at her violin and played at painting, modeling, wood-carving, pyrography, and bookbinding, to all of which arts she brought fitful enthusiasms, little knowledge, but much force and originality in execution. She was holding doubtfully in her hand a card on which was written the name of Morris Fordham.

"Did he seem like a book-agent, Annie?"

66

Oh, no, miss. He's a gentleman." The maid repudiated the suggestion almost with horror.

Margery smiled a little, thinking that her notion of a gentleman might differ from Annie's, but she had curiosity enough to send her down-stairs to inspect Annie's ideal. Her sense that it was not quite convenable to see a total stranger, presenting himself without

introduction or explanation, led her to assume a dignity positively repellant, as if she suspected the young man before her of being not only a book-agent, but a sneak-thief.

"Mr.-er-Fordham?"

She read the

"You

name from the card, with the effect of considering it an extremely plebeian one. wished to see me?"

66

Yes, Miss Fanning," the visitor rejoined, not at all overawed by her haughtiness. "I have had the pleasure of seeing you in your own drawing-room before, and very recently, though evidently you don't remember me."

She looked him over,-close-cropped dark head, smiling eyes, erect figure in its well-bred morning suit, utterly puzzled by a sense of familiarity yet difference.

"Your voice seems familiar," she hesitated, 66 and your face-yes, I know that I have met you, but I have to confess that I can't think when or where. Surely you have never been in this house as our guest?"

He laughed out.

"It's a reassurance to hear you say that, Miss Fanning. But don't think me rude if I contradict and insist that I had a delightful little talk with you at the musicale the other night."

Suddenly she saw what likeness had bewildered her. This man's hair was cropped like a convict's, while Tolna's had waved over his forehead and about his ears. Tolna's eyes

were somber; this man's were twinkling with fun. This man's face seemed younger, squarer, possibly plainer than the distinguished Tolna's, but the likeness was remarkable. Margery started back with the intention of ringing the bell and ordering the man shown out.

"You are trying to personate Monsieur Tolna!" she accused him.

He had the effrontery to laugh again.

"I have been trying that for some years; but as my success was not satisfactory,-to me, at least,-I've stopped now, and am personating myself, Morris Fordham."

She had nearly reached the button of the electric bell.

"Mr. Fordham, I cannot continue this interview." Though she spoke bravely, her voice shook. "You are either an impostor, or you are not responsible for what you say.

"I assure you, Miss Fanning, I 'm not a maniac," he cried, starting forward in his earnestness, before which Margery retreated against the wall, groping for the bell, not