ns.

"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man.

"Very well, then--Monsieur Bliss," returned Jean, a little grimly.

"Monsieur Bliss is not at home, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man.

Jean bit his lip. That Henry Bliss might still be away, since he had
gone to London some days before, was probably true; but that Myrna was
out at ten o'clock in the morning--the man, under instructions, was
lying, of course! He stood hesitant, his rage increasing, half
inclined to reach out and twist the neck of this bedecked
functionary--and then, with a short laugh, he swung on his heel, went
down the steps again, and climbed back into the car.

The car shot forward in a savage bound. She was probably watching him
from behind the curtain of a window! His hands clenched fiercely on
the steering wheel--and he flung the throttle wide. It was enough!
This had lasted long enough! It was her idea of punishment, perhaps!
"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde"--he mimicked the
colourless-voiced flunky viciously. To telephones, personal calls--the
same answer; to notes--no answer at all. Well, she would answer--and
soon! He would take care of that, and--he jammed the brakes
frantically on the machine, as a figure, barely escaping disaster as
the result of his reckless driving, jumped wildly away from in front of
the car; while a voice shouted in sharp protest:

"Hey, there--where are you going!"

"To the devil!" snarled Jean--and chuckled the next instant with sudden
malicious delight, as he recognised the other. It was Father Anton--on
his way to the Bliss residence, probably.

"You are travelling fast, my son!"--grave and quiet, the note of
protest gone, Father Anton's voice came back from the curb--and then
the old priest was blotted from sight, and the car was speeding down
the boulevard again.

Hah! Father Anton! Father Anton--the grandmother! Father Anton, who
had thought on arriving in Paris to lecture him, Jean Laparde, on how
he should live, and sermonise on the pleasures of the flesh, and the
dangers of power and wealth and position, and to haunt the studio with
a sanctimoniously grieved expression everlastingly on his face! Ha,
ha! Father Anton! Father Anton was the man who once had preached so
fatuously on the nothingness of fame! Well, Father Anton, if he were
not blind, could--again Jean checked the car violently, this time in
response to a harsh, strident, authoritative comm