onel passed a hand into a breast pocket and extracted a
dainty Russia-leather letter-case. From it he drew a faded writing
and handed it to the Comtesse.

"Madame la Comtesse is welcome to the letter," he said. "Pray keep
it."

The Comtesse did not read it. She folded it in her thin smooth hands
and sighed.

"And then?" she asked.

"This is the end of my tale," said the Colonel. "I took the letter
and placed it in my pocket. Madame Bertin watched me imperturbably."

"'I may leave the formalities to you?' she asked me suddenly; 'the
notification of death and so on?'"

"I bowed; I had still a difficulty in speaking."

"'Then I will thank you for all your friendship,' she said."

"I put up my hand. 'At least do not thank me,' I cried. I could not
face her serene eyes, and that little lifting of the brows with which
she answered my words. Awe, dread, passion--these were at war within
me, and the dead man lay on the floor at my feet, I pushed the door
open and fled."

Colonel Saval sat up in his chair and uncrossed his legs.

"I saw her no more," he said. "Madame la Comtesse knows how she
returned to Algiers and presently died there? Yes."

The Comtesse bowed. "I thank you, Monsieur," she said. "You have done
me a great service."

"I am honored," he replied, as he rose. "I wish you a good-night.
Mademoiselle, good-night."

He was gone. The white doors closed behind him. The Comtesse raised
her face and kissed the tall, gentle girl.

"Leave me now," she said. "I must read my letter alone."

And Elsie went. The story was finished at last.

IX

LOLA

Rubies ripped from altar cloths Leered a-down her rich attire; Her
mad shoes were scarlet moths In a rose of fire.

A. T. Quiller-Couch.

From the briskness of the street, with its lamps aglitter in the
lingering May evening, O'Neill entered to the sober gloom and the
restless echoes of the great studio. He had come to hate the place of
late. The high poise of its walls, like the sides of a well, the pale
shine of the north light in the roof, the lumber of naked marble and
formal armor and the rest, peopling its shadows, were like a tainted
atmosphere to him; they embarrassed the lungs of his mind. Only the
name of friendship exacted these visits from him; Regnault, dying
where he had worked, was secure against desertion.

Buscarlet opened the door to him, his eyes wide and bewildered behind
his spectacles.

"How is he?" asked O'Neill curtly, ente