of her noble origin, had been
adopted by an enormously rich American, about whom nothing more was
known than the fact that he lived in New York. The Marquis, the article
stated, now was engaged in searching for his long-lost daughter, and
among other means to the desired end had hit upon this--of walking New
York's chief thoroughfare in the faith that should he see his child his
paternal instinct would reveal to him her identity.

"I calculate that this will rather whoop up public interest in our
performance," said the tailor, cheerfully, the next day, as he handed
the newspaper containing the pleasing fiction to Jaune. "That's my
idea, for a starter. I've got the whole story ready to come out in
sections--paid a literary feller twenty dollars to get it up for me.
And you be careful to-day when you are interviewed" (Jaune shuddered)
"to keep the story up--or" (for Jaune was beginning a remonstrance)
"you can keep out of it altogether, if you'd rather. Say you must
refuse to talk upon so delicate a subject, or something of that sort.
Yes, that's your card. It'll make the mystery greater, you know--and
I'll see that the public gets the facts, all the same."

The tailor chuckled, and Jaune was unutterably wretched. He was on the
point of throwing up his contract. He opened his mouth to speak the
decisive words--and shut it again as the thought came into his mind
that his misery must be borne, and borne gallantly, because it was all
for the love of Rose.

That day there was no affectation in his air of melancholy. He was
profoundly miserable. Faithful to his contract, he looked searchingly
upon the many young women of twenty years whom he met; and such of them
as were possessors of tender hearts grew very sorrowful at sight of the
obvious woe by which he was oppressed. His woe, indeed, was keen, for
the newspaper article had had its destined effect, and he was a marked
man. People turned to look at him as people had not turned before; it
was evident that he was a subject of conversation. Several times he
caught broken sentences which he recognized as portions of his
supposititious biography. His crowning torture was the assault of the
newspaper reporters. They were suave, they were surly, they were
insinuatingly sympathetic, they were aggressively peremptory--but all
alike were determined to wring from him to the uttermost the details of
the sorrow that he never had suffered, of the life that he never had
lived. It was