drunkenness. The play that night was that harrowing thing La Tosca;
she was dressed for her part when the word came, written on a scrap
of paper: "It is to-night. I am waiting at the stage door." She
pondered for a few moments over it, then reached for her cloak and
drew it on over her brilliant stage dress.

"Find Vaucher," she said to her maid. "Tell him I cannot play to-
night. He must put on my understudy. Say I am ill."

The maid, startled out of her composure, threw up her hands.

"But, Madame----!" she cried.

Truda waved her aside. "Lose no time," she ordered. "Tell Vaucher I
am ill. And then go back to the baby."

She wasted no more words on the woman, but swept forth from the room
and down the draughty ill-lit passage to the stage-door. Its
guardian, staggered at her appearance, let her out; on the pavement
outside, muffled to the eyes like a man that evades observation, was
the big young Jew. He was gazing out over the square; her fingers on
his arm made him look round with a start.

"I am here," she said. "Now tell me."

With eyes that glanced about warily while he spoke, he told her
quickly, in low tones of haste.

"There is a mob gathering again at the market," he said. "Two spirit-
shops have been broken open. That is how it begins always. Some Jews