. He had so long buffeted the waves of adversity himself that he
was a past master of the art of measuring the depth of a hidden purse.
He recalled the brilliant Casimir Wieniawski of eight years past--the
curled darling of the hot-hearted ladies of Calcutta, Madras, Bombay and
Singapore. In a glance of cursory inspection Alan Hawke had noted the
doubtful gloss of the dress suit; it was the polish of long wear, not
the velvety glow of newness. There was a growing bald spot, scarcely
hidden by the Hyperion Polish curls; there were crows'-feet around the
bold, insolent eyes, and the man's smile was lean and wolfish when the
glittering white teeth flashed through the professional smirk of the
traveling artist. The old, easy assurance was still there, but cognac
had dulled the fires of genius; the tones of the violin trembled, even
under the weakening but still magic fingers, and the splendid sapphire
and diamond cluster ring of old was replaced by a too evident Palais
Royal work of inferior art.

"Poor devil! It is the downward fluttering of the wearied eagle!" mused
Alan Hawke. "Women, roulette, champagne, and high life--all these
past riches fade away into the gloomy pleasures of restaurant cognac,
dead-shot absinthe, and the vicarious smiles of a broken soubrette or
so! And all the more you can be now dangerous to me, Monsieur Casimir
Wieniawski, for the old maneater forgets none of his tricks, even when
toothless."

Casimir, the handsome Pole, glib of tongue, the heir to a thousand minor
graces, reckless in outpouring the wine of Life, had truly gone the
downward way with all the abandon of his showy, insincere race. Hawke
well knew the final level of misery awaiting the wandering, broken-down
artist here in a land where really fine music was a mere drug; where
the orchestra was only a cheap lure to enhance the cafe addition.
The "Professor" was but a minor staff officer of the grim Teutonic
Oberkellner of the Brasserie Concert.

"But how shall I muzzle this Robert Macaire of the bow?" cogitated
Hawke, as he anxiously eyed the two windows of Madame Louison's rooms,
and then sternly gazed at the open front doors of the Hotel Faucon.

A light broke in upon his brain. "There is the golden lure of the Misses
Phenie and Genie Forbes, of Chicago, U. S. A. Those madcap girls will be
easily gulled. They arrive to-morrow at nine. A few stage asides, as to
the stock romance of every Polish upstart, will do the trick!"

"Rus