equested me to get off his foot.

The bearded manager--or proprietor--was waving his hands once more and
begging attention and silence. He got both, in a measure. Then he made
his announcement.

He begged ten thousand pardons, but Mademoiselle Guinot--That was it,
Guinot, not Juno or Junotte--had been seized with a most regrettable
illness. She had been unable to continue her performance. It was not
serious, but she could sing no more that evening. To-morrow evening--ah,
yes. Most certainly. But to-night--no. Monsieur Hairee Opkins, the
most famous Engleesh comedy artiste would now entertain the patrons of
L'Abbaye. He begged, he entreated attention for Monsieur Opkins.

I did not wait for "Monsieur Hairee." I forced my way to the door. As I
passed out I cast a glance in the direction of young Bayliss. He was
on his feet, loudly shouting for a waiter and his bill. I had so much
start, at all events.

Through the waiters and uniformed attendants I elbowed. Another man with
a beard--he looked enough like the other to be his brother, and perhaps
he was--got in my way at last. A million or more pardons, but Monsieur
could not go in that direction. The exit was there, pointing.

As patiently and carefully as I could, considering my agitation, I
explained that I did not wish to find the exit. I was a friend, a--yes,
a--er--relative of the young lady who had just sung and who had been
taken ill. I wanted to go to her.

Another million pardons, but that was impossible. I did not understand,
Mademoiselle was--well, she did not see gentlemen. She was--with
the most expressive of shrugs--peculiar. She desired no friends. It
was--ah--quite impossible.

I found my pocketbook and pressed my card into his hand. Would he give
Mademoiselle my card? Would he tell her that I must see her, if only for
a minute? Just give her the card and tell her that.

He shook his head, smiling but firm. I could have punched him for the
smile, but instead I took other measures. I reached into my
pocket, found some gold pieces--I have no idea how many or of what
denomination--and squeezed them in the hand with the card. He still
smiled and shook his head, but his firmness was shaken.

"I will give the card," he said, "but I warn Monsieur it is quite
useless. She will not see him."

The waiter with whom I had seen Herbert Bayliss in altercation was
hurrying by me. I caught his arm.

"Pardon, Monsieur," he protested, "but I must go. The gentlem