saw Van Derwater's hands contract, and for a
moment that passed as quickly as it came his whole being shook in a
convulsive tremor of feeling. Then, in a silence that was poignant, he
sank slowly into his chair, his shoulders drooping, listless and weary.
With eyes that were seeing into some secret world of their own he gazed
dreamily across the room, and a smile crept into his face--a smile of one
who sees the dawn after a long, bitter night.

'Thank God,' he said, with lips that trembled oddly. 'Thank God.'

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SMUGGLER BREED.

I.

On an April evening, fifteen months later, a certain liveliness could
have been noted in the vicinity of Drury Lane Theatre. The occasion
was another season of opera in English, and as the offering for the
night was _Madam Butterfly_, the usual heterogeneous fraternity of
Puccini-worshippers were gathering in large numbers.

Although the splendour of Covent Garden (which had been closed for the
war) was missing, the boxes held their modicum of brilliantly dressed
women; and through the audience there was a considerable sprinkling of
soldiers, mostly from the British Dominions and America, grasping
hungrily at one of the few war-time London theatrical productions that
did not engender a deep and lasting melancholy--to say nothing of a
deep and lasting doubt of English humour and English delicacy.

In one of the upper boxes Lady Erskin had a small unescorted party.
Lady Erskin herself was a plump little miniature who was rather
exercised over the dilemma of whether to display a huge feathery fan
and obliterate herself, or to sacrifice the fan to the glory of being
stared at by common people. With her was her sister, the wife of a
country rector, who assumed such an elaborate air of _ennui_ that any
one could have told it was her first time in a box. Between them was
Lady Erskin's rather pretty daughter, and behind her, with all her
vivid personality made glorious in its setting of velvety cloak and
creamy gown, was Elise Durwent, enjoying a three days' respite from her
long tour of duty.

The lights went out, and with the rising of the curtain the little
drama of tenderness and cruelty held the stage. From the distance,
Butterfly could be heard approaching, her voice coming nearer as the
typical Puccini progressions followed her ascent. There was the
marriage, the cursing of Butterfly by the Bonze, and the exquisite love
duet, so full of passionate _a