"They have a doctor here." "Not a proper doctor. You ought to see the condition she 's in. We must go to your chief and get him to allow-" When he'd spoken to the chauffeur, he followed her into the car, slammed the door, and relapsed into moody silence. Above the profoundly stirred deeps a trifle rose to the surface. "I thought," she said, "prisoners of the first class could wear their own clothes." "Well?" "Miss von Schwarzenberg was in prison clothes." "Then it's her own fault. She started first class." "How could it be her own fault? You don't think she would choose to wear such-" "She chooses to give trouble." Singleton relapsed again into silence. What had happened to Mr. Singleton after she left him? It struck her from time to time that this man, who had been so sympathetic, nearly as keen for the meeting as Nan herself, once his objection had been overcome, seemed to take strangely little interest in the issue. This knowledge marred and certainly shortened the account. She found herself dwelling mainly on what Greta had told her about the third degree. Singleton's silence got on her nerves. "What do you say to their not letting her sleep?" She waited to hear him deny the charge. "You don't think they 'll ever try that again?" "She'd much better have talked freely to you." It was n't the coldness of the reply that struck the girl so much as the latent menace in it. "Why should you have wanted her to say more?" "Well, did n't you? I thought you were for the Allies." "So I am." "After my persuading the chief it was better to let you do the job unconsciously, then you and"-with a gulp of bitterness Singleton swallowed his too unflattering opinion of what, precisely, Miss Ellis had gone and done. Only one count in the long indictment slipped out: "To forget even to press the question of the friend in the War Office when Schwarzenberg had broached it herself to let slip a chance like that!" "How do you know I let it slip?" came from the dark corner. "Well, did n't you?" "I have n't told you so." There was a moment's silence. "How did you know?" the girl repeated. "Well, how do you suppose I know?" No word out of her for the rest of that awful drive till she saw they had reached Berkeley Street. He apologized for not going to Whitehall. Too late. Everything shut up. "I'll go and see the chief to-morrow and let you hear," he declared. He scribbled a note that evening, reporting to headquarters: No result yet. Particulars given to morrow. Singleton did n't sleep much that night. He made up for the loss in the morning. Before he was dressed a message summoned him to the chief. At Whitehall he learned that Miss Ellis had been waiting there that morning before the doors were opened. She had sent in her card a good hour and a half before the chief arrived, but she refused point-blank to see any one else. The chief passed her waiting there in the hall. He had her in. "You ought to hear the chief!" Singleton said grimly to Napier that afternoon. Singleton himself had enjoyed the privilege of "hearing the chief." She had come "to demand an extension of privilege for that woman, a doctor!” The chief talked with her long enough to make up his mind she was no good for the business. "He did n't spare her, I 'm afraid. He says she cheeked him. Can't imagine it, can you?" Napier could n't say. “Well, I said he must have misunderstood. I reminded him she was an American. The chief says in one breath she told him he was inhuman and in the next demanded a permit to take a doctor to the prison. "Oh, I know,' she interrupted, 'you 're going to say they 've got a doctor—' "I beg your pardon, that was not in the least what I was going to say.' "What, then?' "I was going to say, why should she have any doctor at all? Your friend,' the chief told her, 'has it in her power, so Mr. Singleton imagines, to do us some little service. If she won't, what 's the good of her? Whether she could do us this particular service, since that is n't what you 've come about, we 'll leave unconsidered. What there 's no doubt about is her power to do us harm. Your friend has got to be suppressed.' And he shut that mouth of his like a steel trap. 66 'Suppressed!' She stared at him. Can't you see her? 'Suppressed? How?' "Ah, that's been the problem. Not with me. I've known from the beginning there was only one way.' "Only one way? You mean to murder her?' "The chief blinked several times at that. He has n't got over blinking yet, by Jove! He says she went straight from there to the American embassy. Before she got any one to see her, the ambassador had been telephoned to. So that 's all right; but my chance is gone. Schwarzenberg is to have her final hearing on Thursday." "Is it likely to go against her?" The butler came in with a folded halfsheet of note-paper on a tray. Napier opened it. As he opened the door, he faced the messenger standing there in the middle of the room with wide, scared eyes. "O Gavan!" She fled into his arms. He held her there against him in the corner of the sofa till she could speak once more. Every now and then she broke out crying afresh as she told in incoherent fragments what that last horrible twenty-four hours had brought of knowledge, of anguish, of loathing. "I've come to get you to help poor Greta and"-she took for granted he 'd do that "to help poor me." "Help you, my darling?" "You must please do something for me and do it quickly." Her eyes went to the clock. "Forgive me for not being able to take the time to explain it all, but they the Government of your country-is likely to"-she caught her breath, and the voice sank-"to do the most horrible thing, a thing you must prevent." In the silence she leaned forward the better to see his face. Plainly it made her anxious; she looked away with that fold between the brows. “I 've just found out," she went on in a half-whisper-"it 's no hearsay!-the authorities consider that Greta was caught red-handed,' as they call it. There's no time to go into that. It does n't matter-" "Does n't matter!" "Not now. Oh, don't look like that!" She put up her hand and drew her finger-tips down across his face. He caught at the wrist and held her while he talked very quietly. There was no trace of exultation over the woman who had served him so ill and served his country worse. "But we can't, to salve our private feelings, leave a person of that sort-" "Whatever she 's done, you can't let her be killed, Gavan! Gavan, you can't! Not a woman who was my old friend." "Don't!" he cried out. "It's more than I can bear to hear you calling her your friend. Of course you are horrorstruck-" "I am more than horror-struck; I 'm haunted. I'll be haunted all my days unless you—O Gavan," she held out her hands—“if you 're sorry, take me out of this nightmare!" As he took the hands in his and tried to draw her to him again, he felt her shuddering. "It is n't horror only. I've been through vileness, too. It's all clinging about me. I 've seen a man making use of holy things for hideous ends. I 've seen a woman broken by torture. I've seen-" She jumped up, with a hand dashed across her wet eyes-"If you can't do something, if you let Greta be shot, I shall never sleep again. I shall go mad." "Hush! hush! Don't you see that if I were to do everything in my power, this business has gone too far? I am as helpless as you, as helpless as she." "You can't say that till you 've tried -tried everything. If you 'll only try!" Without her saying so, he felt that to have tried to save that wretched woman, even to have failed, as fail he must, would count for something. Well out of his reach, she was watching him with an intensity that held her breathless. "What you suppose I can say, feeling as I do, I don't know." "I know." She came a step nearer. "Make them see that Greta can do them one last greatest harm of all. Oh, she 'll have the best of it yet if you don't do something to stop them! Can't you see?" He shook his head. "Well, just think! They 've got her absolutely in their power. That's an awful responsibility. They can do what they like with her. They think she can't retaliate any more, but you show them she can. Oh, she 'll have her revenge if she can goad them into being cruel! I thought I was asking you to do something for my sake, for our two sakes, when I came here. But I see now you 'll do worse than make me miserable as long as I live if you let them-kill Greta. You'll be doing a bad service to England." "You mean," he said, "that because she's a woman-" "Let them think that if they like!" She watched him hobble to the bell. "Oh, kind and dear—” Two days Gavan spent seeing people, pulling strings, arguing, urging. Unblushingly he used his friends, he pledged his credit. He had never worked harder in his life; and then, to save their faces, the authorities said they had never intended the death-penalty for the woman. In England they did n't, and so on. Napier took the news to Berkeley Street that same afternoon. "But understand," he stood up before Nan's chair, leaning only on his stick, "it's right to tell you, no power under heaven will make me either in the near future or the far future, nothing will make me raise a finger to have that woman set free." "Free! Oh, no, she can't be allowed free." "Very well," said Napier, relieved; "just so you understand." "She's lost her right to freedom." He looked at her. "And you don't think death is better?" "Yes, death is better for Greta, but not for us. I mean, we could n't do it, nor let it be done as vengeance. That is n't for us." His eyes followed her. "Going to push the little sofa to the fire. It's bad for you to stand." While he waited, not offering to help, just looking at her, a servant came in. "Mr. Singleton, Miss, on the telephone. I've connected this one." Nan went up to Gavan with a harassed face. She did n't want to talk to Mr. Singleton. "Could you, do you think-” She left him at Sir James's writingtable, and went back to make the cushion comfortable. "Oh, you 're speaking for her, are you?" Singleton said. "Well, you can tell her, then, that the play is ausgespielt." "What do you mean?" Gavan's voice was sharp. "They did n't go back on their word?" "No, no; and she took the finding of the court this morning gamely enough -death-sentence, commuted to imprisonment for life. They let me see her a minute before she was taken back to her cell. Game? Never saw anything like it till I proved to her that Ernst was acting for us. That got her! But when they came to take her away, she was quiet enough. Tired,' she said. Thought she 'd sleep at last. 'Rather a strain, these last days.' When they went in with her food-dead." "What? Say it again." "Not a bit of it. You remember my saying to you at Lamborough that we 'd found everything except a pinch of white powder? She had it all right, and she had the grit. Jove! I wish we had one or two to match her!" Gavan hung up the receiver and turned back to the figure at the fire. THE END R. HUNEKER, I presume." "Yes?" A 66 "My name is Siedle. I am technical director of the Metropolitan Opera House." "Drop the mask and quit your fooling, Teddy," I retorted. "I want you to pilot me about the shop." "Impossible, sir. The folks are rehearsing 'La Reine Fiammette,' but I 'll do what I can for you." The technical director is rather rotund, and his hair gray; but the face is boyish, and he is always up to some prank. No one would suppose this placid Americanwith a marked English accent, for he is British born-carried, like Atlas, an entire world on his shoulders. We hear a lot, read more, of Caruso, of the other singers and the orchestra, and of Manager Gatti (for short), but good old Teddy represents a mainspring of the big yellow barn on upper Broadway. Without his omniscient ego an opera could easily become a concert; that is, there would be singing, but no opera, so much does the illusion of this hybrid, exotic art form depend upon stage settings and elaborate machinery. In such complicated matters Edward Siedle is monarch of all he surveys. And he has the invaluable coöperation of the young Pole, Stage-Director Richard Ordynski, and of Armando Agini, stage-manager. It happened to be the scene in which Geraldine Farrar extinguishes with such incomparable grace and experience those candles that would have lighted the flowery road of the amorous queen to her lover, the mad monk. A thrilling moment evidently suggested to the librettist, Catulle Mendès, by the candlesnuffing in "La Tosca," but in this instance the "corpse" is a live one; hence the alacrity with which the queen acts as an enemy of the light: in "Tosca" her movements are more deliberate. Scarpia, murdered, no longer menaces. And with the exception of the malachite room, I can't recall another thing about the Leroux opera. Of the music, naught. I do remember the flamboyant scenic settings of Boris Anisfeld and the gorgeous peacock-perhaps I should say peahen-which Miss Farrar showed us. Mr. Siedle kept his word. I soared aloft on dizzy bridges, I dived into the bowels of the earth, where I was terrified by subterrene explosions-the new subway-or fascinated by the electric system, truly the nerve-ganglia of the opera-house. Mr. Siedle, who could pass as own brother to Secretary Lansing, finally washed his hands of the job and left me in the amiable custody of Librarian Lionel Mapleson, in whose interesting chamber I saw the plans of the new opera and one million signed photographs, more or less, of vanished operatic celebrities. It had been a busy morning and a memorable date. I mention this rehearsal, which occurred January 22, 1919, as a typical high light of the operatic season at the Metropolitan. Putting aside the revivals of "Oberon" and "La Forza del Destino," the remainder of the novelties of 1918-19 are quite as negligible as "La Reine Fiammette." I am not a date-hound. I make this admission in a chastened mood, as I envy those math |