toward the door, drying her hands on her apron.

"Le Brux," said Leighton, "Le Brux!"

"Yes, I hear," gasped the sculptor, his eyes tight shut.

"Le Brux, where is your wound?"

"My wound? Ha! my wound! He would know where is my wound! Here, here, my
old one, here!" He passed his two hands over his shaking ribs.

"Well, then," said Leighton, "take that!" and he dashed the pail of
water over the prostrate giant.

Le Brux gasped, gulped, and then sat up on the couch. He suddenly became
very grave. Water trickled off his chin upon his hairy chest. The soaked
smock clung to his arms and legs, accentuating the tremendous muscles.
"M'sieu' Létonne," he said, with alarming calm, "you have committed an
unpardonable impertinence. At the same time you have unwittingly saved
my life. You have heard of men, strong men, laughing themselves to
death?"

Leighton, who had seated himself, bowed.

"Well," continued Le Brux, "I can assure you that you and your pail of
slops arrived only in time to avert a tragedy. That fact entitles itself
to recognition, and I am consequently going to tell you all that has
happened before we part--definitely."

Leighton bowed again.