second flash showed them again to the listener. Tranter was still
holding her away from him. In that vivid fraction of a second the agony
of her face was terrible.

"Thea!" she echoed pitifully. "Ah, yes--call me Thea! Poor Thea! Oh,
doesn't that name awaken ... something? Hasn't it still some charm? Once
you said it was the only name in all the world. Is it nothing to you
now?"

"Nothing," he answered.

In spite of his resistance she was forcing herself nearer to him. The
magic of her presence was binding him.

"Am I less beautiful?" she whispered. "Have I lost anything that used to
draw you? Is not my hair as golden? Are not my eyes as bright--my lips
as red? Am I not as soft to touch? Where could you find anything better
than me?"

"Keep back!" he muttered.

Her hands were about him. In the darkness he could feel the deadly
loveliness of her face almost touching his own. He was yielding, inch by
inch. The warmth of her breath ... the perfume of her body.... Her
closeness was intoxicating--maddening.

"Oh, let me come to you," she prayed. "I will follow you barefooted to
the end of the world. I will live for you--slave for you--die for you.
Only let me come. Let me leave all this--and come to you ...
to-morrow...."

A groan was wrung from him. He crushed her to him.

"Come then!" he cried desperately. "Come, if you will!..."

A vivid flash, which seemed to burst almost over their heads, showed
them locked in each other's arms, their lips pressed together.

Monsieur Dupont raised himself quickly. There was the sound of running
footsteps on the path behind him. Monsieur Dupont had just time to turn
the corner before the disordered figure of the theatrical manager loomed
up before him.

"The madman is in the garden! He ran this way."

"_Diable!_" said Monsieur Dupont.

"I found him sneaking towards the house. He bolted out here."

Unaccustomed to physical exertion, the manager laid a heavy hand on
Monsieur Dupont's shoulder, and mopped his forehead breathlessly.

"The scoundrel means mischief," he declared. "He must be found."

"Where is Mr. Copplestone?"

"I called him, but couldn't get an answer. He must be away at the other
end of the garden."

"No one has passed this way," Monsieur Dupont assured him. "For a
half-hour I have been wandering about these horrible paths."

"It's a devil of a garden," the manager admitted. "The fellow won't get
very far. Let's look about here."

Fortified with