dressing, the slightest interest in her appearance, she had never looked more charming than on that fiery forenoon of July. Her linen frock, touched here and there with Florentine embroidery, short enough to afford a glimpse of silken ankles, increased her habitual suggestion of a virginal freshness. Her wide hat, of Her wide hat, of white straw trimmed with snowy poppies, enhanced the fine auburn of her curls. And the shadow from the hat-brim, though emphasizing the delicacy of her face, did not abate the luster of her throat, ringed round with the two-fold rimple.

In the smoky station resonant with the noise of locomotives, amid the sweltering crowd assembled at the ticket-taker's barrier, Thallie stood waiting. A stream of passengers and porters began to flow out through the gate. Behind the barrier she caught sight of a tall, thick-set figure, a calm, strong face, and, extended toward the ticket-taker, a large hand ornamented with a graved carnelian..

Wrapped in a somber reverie he came toward her, followed by a man-servant and a porter laden with valises. His illegible eyes were attracted by her white dress. He almost stopped short; but the next moment she felt the firm pressure of his hand.

"You came all alone, on this broiling day, to meet me!"

She was astonished at the unnatural stiffness of his smile. Despite the heat, his fingers, wrapped round hers, seemed cold to Thallie. And suddenly, not from his look or tone of voice, but just by the flash of intuition which pierced her developing heart, she realized at last that the celebrated John Holland was in love. with her.

CHAPTER XVIII

FAREWELL, GOLDEN CITY, RICH WITH SO MANY GRIEFS AND JOYS!

WITHIN an hour of his return to Florence, John Holland proved that even an historian of dead races may be a man of action.

He drove straightway to police headquarters. There he got the addresses of

the Swiss waiter and the Greek adventurer. Since he did not hope to find Farazounis still in Florence, he went next, accompanied by a young detective as handsome and romantic-looking as a Romeo, to the Hôtel des Grands Ducs. The rakish door-porter with white, woolly hair informed him that the lady, despite her obligations to the Alhambra Music Hall, had departed for the north. the previous evening.

"For the north?"

"Yes, Signore. By the Genoa express."

John Holland reflected that a woman of ordinary cunning would say north. when she was really going south. On the other hand, one slightly more adroit, anticipating that a possible pursuer would disbelieve her, might divulge the true direction. There was also to be considered the question of ships outbound for South America, though John Holland suspected that for the present Switzerland or France would seem safer to the International Star. Of course it would be possible to question the baggage-handlers at the railroad station. But since the Tesore's haul was three times less important than the Greek's, John decided to leave the tracking of the vaudeville actress temporarily to the police.

He took time, however, to drop in at the Café Hirsch.

scarce,

Otto Bürglen, "age forty-seven, Swiss citizen, waiter by profession, short, stout, blue hair blond, eyes, but face round, no distinguishing marks," had the day before thrown up his job in a spectacular manner. In fact, according to the café-keeper, he had suddenly gone mad. He had been violent before the patrons, had raved of boundless wealth, and, after grossly insulting the whole personnel, had rushed away announcing that he was the proprietor of a "chic hotel at Monte Carlo."

At Otto's lodgings a shriveled crone declared that the Swiss had departed for the Riviera.

Possibly this fellow, at least, was more of a fool than a knave. John Holland suggested to the detective that, as a first

resort in Otto's case, the police send a telegram to the Franco-Italian border.

But there remained the question of Constantine Farazounis.

His attic room in Via Santa Reparata revealed the peculiar disorder which a fleeing criminal produces. Ragged odds and ends of clothing were strewn about; an old trunk yawned empty beneath at garish lithograph of "the Incomparable Nella Tesore"; a heap of charred paper lay cold in a greasy saucepan. The young detective, examining a towel, vouchsafed:

"He took no baggage, and he has done away with his mustaches. Still, that need n't disturb us. These Orientals always make off, by instinct, toward the south."

"I agree with you. As a matter of precaution, you might tell the Brindisi police to watch all ships clearing for the East. I fancy, though, that I shall run into him in Naples, somewhere between Via Roma and the Corso Garibaldi."

"You go after him, Signore?"

"By all means," John Holland replied, with a smile which gave his rugged features a new look. "We ought to have lots to talk of, he and I: we 're both so fond of archæology."

An hour later he was speeding back to Naples.

The only notice that the Goodchilds had of this departure was a scribbled line delivered by the cabman. John Holland bade them not worry if they failed to hear from him for several days. And, indeed, they were destined to endure a fortnight of silence and suspense.

What was he doing?

Thallie could scarcely share in full the anxiety of the others; she was too much preoccupied by her discovery. At one moment, remembering his celebrity and age, she called herself a goose; but soon, reviewing that moment of clairvoyance in the railroad station, she felt that if there was a goose in this galley, it certainly must be a gander. One moment: she did n't quite mean that! John Holland, even if he were tempted to fall in love with twenty years, could never appear ridiculous. Like everything that he did or said.

or wore, this state of mind would have to seem, somehow, correct and sensible. After all, there must be many men of forty who married girls hardly more than half their age? In some cases such a union might even be excusable: for instance, when the man of forty was "exceptionally well preserved, a strong character, a sympathetic nature?" Yes, one could imagine how a young woman in very special circumstances might be sufficiently attracted by that type.

"But, goodness! for me it would be out of the question!"

And looking askance, her cheeks burning, she found herself picturing, with an unpleasant agitation, this new conjecture, so different from the speculations that had once enthralled her.

Yet one result of her discovery was an accentuated dread of Baron di Campoformio's chauffeur. This emotion, as it turned out, was not unreasonable.

On a sultry afternoon-there seemed to be a thunder-storm brewing somewhereMr. Goodchild sat huddled beneath the palmetto in a blue funk. His grand hopes denied, his confidence in his fellow-man extensively disturbed, his optimism crushed, he shrank into his chair afraid to raise his eyes toward the shuttered windows of the annex, where his daughters

were.

Domenico, the little door-porter of the pension, came softly to him with the words:

"Somebody is asking for you in the vestibule. I think it 's Baron di Campoformio's chauffeur."

It was, indeed, Antonio, in whip-cord. livery, fumbling his cap, with eyes obsequiously cast down, but for all that showing on his broad, ignoble countenance a look of sullen resolution. As Mr. Goodchild came forward through the hall, the chauffeur measured that tall, frail figure with an avid gaze. A species of smile drew back his lips; after bowing, he squared his shoulders with a better confidence.

"Well, Antonio! You have a message from the baron?"

"No, Signore. I have come on a trifling business of my own. Is there some place where we can speak in private?"

Aurelius, oblivious to Domenico's distress, courteously ushered the chauffeur into the parlor, cool, shadowy, full of cuckoo-clocks and painted tambourines and old brocades that gave forth an odor reminiscent of the little yellowish house in Zenasville. Antonio had the good grace to decline a chair.

In tones which were meant to be confiding and pathetic, he informed Mr. Goodchild of his longing to emigrate to the United States. He was weary of driving motor-cars for a pittance; he wanted to be rich. He had a friend in New York; perhaps Mr. Goodchild knew him: the name was Mike Innocenti. This Mike, though only a taxicab chauffeur, sometimes made on wet days as much as fifty lire profit. For a struggling man of family like Antonio-since there was an ailing wife, not to mention the seven poor little ones on view to date-a daily income of fifty lire, well, body of Bacchus! one could understand its charm! The only obstacle was the cost of getting there.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," Aurelius faltered, "but at present I really could n't. assist you."

For a moment Antonio looked at him with eyes half shut. "Nothing?"

"Unhappily, it's quite impossible." "Not even in return for something that you don't want known?"

Mr. Goodchild's comprehension of Italian was still so slight that he had to ask Antonio to paraphrase this speech. An expression of bewilderment overspread his face.

"What secret do you mean?"

Antonio, coming close, assuming a flushed and dogged look, as who should say, "Here goes," began to whisper in Mr. Goodchild's ear.

The afternoon quiet of the Pension Schwandorf was shattered by the roar: "Reptile!"

Domenico came flying. Mme. von Schwandorf, bounding out of her boudoir

office, found herself possessed of the agility of forty years ago. Both rushed into the dim parlor. What a sight met their eyes! Aurelius Goodchild, disciple of Epictetus, was throttling Baron di Campoformio's chauffeur!

Antonio was a sturdy rascal, plumped out by much farinaceous food and wine, inured to muscular labors; yet Aurelius shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. A fearful strength equipped the father's spindling arms; his whole lean frame was suscitated by a supernatural energy; his visage, paper-white above the bristling, gray-and-sandy beard, resembled the face of an infuriated god-say Jupiter, in the act of blasting the impious with thunderbolts. And in fact, so frantic was his rage, so complete was the transformation of his nature, that if he had been let alone a moment longer, Baron di Campoformio would have needed a new chauffeur.

But Mme. von Schwandorf and Domenico were there. In the end they pried Mr. Goodchild's fingers from Antonio's throat. That wretch, already groveling, fell to the floor; Aurelius, staggering back, collapsed upon a divan. His breathing was so stertorous that Mme. von Schwandorf took it to be an apoplexy.

Aurelius had to be carried to his bed; he who had lately been so prodigious was now as weak as water. It was the reaction from a frenzy such as he had never known before.

"What have I done?" he lamented. "I've laid my hands in violence on another; I even meant to kill him. Heaven forgive me, if the provocation was n't ample!" And to Thallie, in a broken voice, he quavered, "Imagine, he tried to tell me- But turning his head on the pillow, he concluded, "No, Babykins, in your presence I could n't so much as hint at what he said."

As for Antonio, he left the neighborhood of the Pension Schwandorf at full speed. But he had not run far when shame and rage made him feel as if he were going to explode. Discovering that his throat was still capable of emitting oaths, he cursed all the way from Santa

Maria Novella to the duomo. Thereabouts a great thirst for revenge pervaded him. He slunk into a wine-shop, tossed off some glasses of punch, rearranged his torn collar, and set out for the cavalrybarracks.

He inquired of the sentry if Lieutenant Fava was within.

Lieutenant Fava was at that moment about to set forth for a visit to the Pension Schwandorf. Spick and span, his boots glossy, his rat-tail mustaches wonderfully waxed, fresh chamois-skin gloves tucked into his sword-hilt, he descended from his quarters to the whitewashed barrack-entry. The troopers of the guard, arising from their bench, saluted. Toto Fava, glancing not unkindly toward the full-length mirror just inside the gates, began to wet a Toscana cigar all over, preparatory to igniting it.

Antonio timidly approached. With the gestures which an Italian peasant uses to convince superiors of his devotion, he whispered. Toto Fava, his unfortunate visage perfectly expressionless, at last succeeded in lighting his Toscana. When he had it drawing well, he spoke not to whispering Antonio, but to the troopers of the guard. He said:

"Kick this fellow into the street."

The order was obeyed with true military despatch. Between the boots of the troopers and the cobblestones before the cavalry-barracks there seemed to be small choice in respect of hardness. Antonio the chauffeur, while limping rapidly away, concluded that this tale of his was an unlucky one.

But Toto Fava never paid another visit to the Pension Schwandorf. To his comrades he did not seem different, except that for a while at hurdles and while riding down precipices he was possibly more reckless than before. He resumed his saunterings with dark-eyed ladies in the Circonvallazione; and if his sallies lacked their former snap, one laid it to the heat. Sometimes, in the café which served the lieutenants of the regiment as a messroom, he smiled sardonically when love was made the topic, and filled his glass too

often. But even his bosom-friend Azeglio had to guess. There was good blood in the homely, impecunious Sicilian.

In the pension garden, no longer embellished by the uniforms of the Magenta Cavalry, tea-time was a forlorn hour nowadays. Amid the courageous roses, still holding out against the August heat, Aurelius and his two daughters sat nibbling biscuits in a painful silence.

One day when they were sitting under the palmetto a rustle close at hand, a scent of rose-geranium, made all three look up together. There before them stood Mme. Bertha Linkow!

Her blue Teutonic eyes were dancing; her wholesome pink-and-white face seemed surrounded by an aureole of delight; her figure, incased in pongee silk, slightly more corpulent than when they had last seen it, was shaking with merriment at their surprise. Then her solid arms embraced both girls at once; two smacking kisses resounded, and the sisters felt a warm, exuberant affection flowing straight from the prima donna's broad bosom into their hearts.

"Ah, the dear children! Still the same delicious red curls, the same so-starlike eyes! Still here beneath the palm-tree! And this precious father of theirs, this saint out of a holy picture, that I thought I was not again to see until in heaven! Look out now! While I am kissing your daughters I might make a little mistake!" "To think, you here in Florence!" Frossie cried.

"No, in Viareggio. Viareggio for the swimming, and the swimming for the figure. Imagine, in my last week at the Metropolitan, Mr. Gatti says to me, 'My dear, your Venus is perhaps becoming too Rubensesque even for the Rubenses: remember Tannhäuser was not conceivably a Turk!' So this summer, God willing, I swim away some portions of my waistline! Every day at Viareggio I am the first to plunge into the sea. As for those who come after, the villains, they make out to walk timidly along the shore and ask me if I have left them any room!"

"Then," said Thallie, her face falling,