was strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and never
have really loved any mortal woman. But his hour had come at last. As
soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her. A strange exaltation
possessed him; his face was radiant; he talked and sung with a
brilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rare
exhibitions of such moods. And Christine seemed fascinated by his beauty
and wit. The hours passed like moments; and when the girl stood watching
him down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember what
questions Franz's eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar the
clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her.

"I wonder where I have seen him before," she murmured--"I wonder where
it was?" and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels,
and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it was
only to take it up again in dreams.

As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep. "One
has too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness,"
he said to himself. And so he sat smoking and thinking and watching the
waning moon sink lower and lower, until it was no longer night, but
dawning day.

"In a few hours now I can go and see Christine." At this point in his
love he had no other thought. He was too happy to speculate on any
probability as yet. It was sufficient at present to know that he had
found his love, that she lived at a definite number on a definite
avenue, and that in six or seven hours more he might see her again.

He chose the earlier number. It was just eleven o'clock when he rung Mr.
Stromberg's bell. Mrs. Stromberg passed through the hall as he entered,