r in the fire.

"What can her curse avail?" he said aloud. "She is gone, turned to
ashes like that paper and there is no life after this one. All then is
nothing--emptiness--a blank! I need rest. It is this cursed dyspepsia
which has made me nervous. Something to compose me, and then to bed!"

In spite of soothing powders, however, he passed a restless night and
arose unrefreshed, but ordered his valet to bring one of his lightest
suits, and, having dressed, he set a white flower upon his coat, while
the servant proceeded to apply various pigments to the wrinkled face,
until it took on a mocking semblance to the countenance of a man
fifteen years younger. The marquis leered at himself in the pier-glass
and assumed a jauntiness of demeanor he was far from feeling.

"I do not look tired or worried, Francois?"

"Not at all, my lord," replied the obsequious valet. "I never saw you,
my lord, appear so young and well."

"Beneath the surface, Francois, there is age and weakness," answered
the marquis in a melancholy tone.

"It is but a passing indisposition, my lord," asserted the servant,
soothingly.

"Perhaps. But, Francois"--peering around--"as I look over my shoulder,
do you know what I see?"

The almost hideous expression of the roue's face alarmed the servant.

"No, my lord, what is it?"

"A figure stands there in black and is touching me. It is the spirit
of death, Francois. You can not see it, but there it is--"

"My lord, you speak wildly."

"I have seen some strange things, Francois. The dead have arisen. And
I have received my warning. Soon I shall join those dark specters
which once gaily traversed this bright world. A little brandy and
soda, Francois."

The servant brought it to him. The marquis leered awfully over his
shoulder once more. "Your health, my guest!" he exclaimed, laughing
harshly. "But my hat, Francois; I have business to perform, important
business!"

He ambled out of the room. On the street he was all politeness,
removing his hat to a dark brunette who rolled by in her carriage, and
pausing to chat with another representative of the sex of the blond
type. Then he gaily sauntered on, until reaching the theater he
stopped and made a number of inquiries. Who was the manager of
Constance Carew? Where was he to be found? "At the St. Charles hotel?"
He was obliged to Monsieur, the ticket-seller, and wished him
good-day.

Entering the hotel, he sent his card to Barnes, requesting an
i