a cigar,
he took it out mechanically, and, as evidence of the composure he did
not possess, bit off the end with deliberate care. Then he fumbled
through his pockets again, and this time produced a marconigram. He
tapped it playfully with one finger, and smiled engagingly at Jean.

"Well, well, I knew I had a panacea with me," he said cheerily. "This
came by wireless half an hour ago; it's what sent me out on the hunt
for you, and ran me into Myrna, and made me stumble on the lovers'
quarrel that I am sure will end just like all the rest of them--eh--my
boy? Listen!"--unfolding the message. "It is from a gentleman with
whom I am well acquainted, who is very prominent in art circles in New
York, stating that he has just learned that you are en route for
America, and asking, on behalf of the leading New York societies, if
you will accept a public reception on the steamer's arrival in New
York. There you are, my boy! Think of that! I promise you that it
will be something to eclipse anything you could imagine. We _do_
things in America--if I say it myself! It will be the triumph of your
career. Bands, flags, bunting, cheers, the dock _en fete_--to say
nothing of reporters"--he was laughing now, and patting Jean's arm
excitedly. "They'll show you, my boy, what they think of Jean Laparde
in America! That's the kind of a welcome they're getting ready for
you--it will be the greatest moment of your life! But here"--he stole
an almost wistful glance at Jean, and stepping over to the writing desk
at the side of the cabin, laid the marconigram down--"I'll just leave
this here, and"--he coughed again, and moved tactfully to the
door--"and you just kind of think about that instead of anything else,
and--er--in about half an hour or so, I'll bring Myrna along up, and
we'll talk it all over together--eh--my boy?"

He waved his hand genially, and, without waiting for a reply, went out.

For a moment Jean did not move; then his eyes, as though drawn
irresistibly in that direction, shifted from the door that had closed
on Henry Bliss to the marconigram lying on the desk--and abruptly he
walked over and picked up the wireless message. He read it through
laboriously, for his English still came hard to him--and read it again,
more slowly, lingering over the words, muttering snatches of the
sentences aloud. "... Shall spare no effort ... endeavour worthily to
express our sentiments ... splendid genius of which France is so