Longarde by clapping their hands, waving their program, and otherwise
manifesting their delight at once more seeing a prime favourite. All eyes
were fixed on the wing of the platform, all hands were ready to give
welcome. But a minute passed--two minutes--three minutes--and Zélie de
Longarde did not appear. Another minute--and then, endeavouring to smile
bravely and reassuringly, and not succeeding particularly well in the
attempt, a tall, elaborately attired, carefully polished-up man,
unmistakably German, blonde, heavy, suave, suddenly walked on to the
platform and did obeisance to the audience.

"Weiss!" whispered Fullaway. "Something's wrong! Look at his face--he's
in big trouble."

The concert-director straightened himself from that semi-military bow,
and looked at the faces in front of him with a mute appeal.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I have to entreat the high favour of
your kind indulgence. Mademoiselle de Longarde is not yet arrived from
her hotel. I hope--I think--she is now on her way. In the meantime I
propose, with your gracious consent, to continue, our program with the
next item, at the conclusion of which, I hope, Mademoiselle will appear."

The audience was sympathetic--the audience was ready to be placated. It
gave cordial hearing and warm favour to the singer of Scottish
melodies--it even played into Mr. Concert-Director Weiss's hands by
according the local singer an encore. But when he had finally retired
there was another wait, a longer one which lengthened unduly, a note of
impatience sounded from the gallery; it was taken up elsewhere. And
suddenly Weiss came again upon the platform--this time with no
affectation of suave entreaty. He was plainly much upset; his elegant