oughts he recalled the lovely, smiling face of Madge.
And now she was lost to him forever--there was a barrier between them
that severed their lives. In his heart he bitterly cursed the day when
he had yielded to the wiles of Diane Merode, the popular dancer of the
Folies Bergere.

The cab stopped, and he reeled up a dark flight of steps. He was sitting
in a big chair in his studio, with the gas burning overhead, and Jimmie
staring at him with an expression of heartfelt sympathy on his honest
face.

"This was the best place to bring you," he said.

Jack rose, and paced to and fro. He looked haggard and dazed; his hair
and clothing were disheveled.

"Tell me, Jimmie," he cried, "is it all a dream, or is it true?"

"I wish it wasn't true, old man. But you're taking it too hard--you're
as white as a ghost. It can be kept out of the papers, you know. And you
won't have to live with her--you can pension her off and send her
abroad. I dare say she's after money. Women are the very devil, Jack,
ain't they? I could tell you about a little scrape of my own, with
Totsy Footlights, of the Casino--"

"You don't understand," said Jack, in a dull, hard voice. "I believed
that Diane was dead."

"Of course you did--you showed me the paragraph in the _Petit Journal_."

"I considered myself a free man--free to marry again."

"Whew! Go on!"

Jack was strangely calm as he took out his keys and unlocked a cabinet
over his desk. He silently handed his friend a photograph.

"By Jove, what a lovely face!" muttered Jimmie.

"That is the best and dearest girl in the world," said Jack. "I thought
I was done with women until I met her, a short time ago. We love each
other, and we were to be married in September. And now--My God, this
will break her heart! It has broken mine already, Jimmie! Curse the day
I first put foot in Paris!"

"My poor old chap, this _is_--"

That was all Jimmie could say. He vaguely realized that he was in the
presence of a grief beyond the power of words to comfort. There was a
suspicious moisture in his eyes as he turned abruptly to the table and
mixed himself a mild stimulant. He drank it slowly to give himself time
to think.

Jack thrust the photograph into the breast pocket of his coat. He rubbed
one hand through his hair, and kicked an easel over. He burst into a
harsh, unnatural laugh.

"This is a rotten world!" he cried. "A rotten world! It's a stage
full of actors, and they play d---- little bu