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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
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