of the ex-prima donna, who tenderly gazed upon him in a proprietary
manner. Alan Hawke had judged it well to ply the champagne, and,
at the witching hour of midnight, he critically inspected Casimir's
condition. "He is probably about tipsy enough now to tell all he
knows, and, with an acquired truthfulness. I will, therefore, bring
this festive occasion to a close." Whereat the watchful Lucullus
of the feast artfully drew Madame Frangipanni aside.

"I have to go on to London, Chere Comtesse," he flatteringly said,
"you must give me Casimir for a couple of hours to-night, to talk
over the old times."

He lingered a moment, hat in hand, as he chivalrously sent Madame
Frangipanni home in a carriage. The poor old singer's bosom was
thrilled with a sunset glow of departing greatness, as she lingered
tearfully that night over the memories of the halcyon days when the
officers of Francis Joseph's bodyguard had fought for the honors
of the carriage courtesies of the Diva. Eheu fugaces!

Closeted together, the minor guests having been artfully dispersed,
Major Alan Hawke and his friend recalled the olden glories of
Wieniawski's Indian tour. It was with a jealous hand that Hawke
doled out the cognac, until Casimir abruptly said: "And now, mon
ami, tell me what has linked you to Alixe Delavigne?" Alan Hawke
had keenly studied his man, and found that the limit of the artist's
drinking capacity seemed to be infinity, and so he leaned back and
coldly scrutinized the musician's shabby exterior. "I think that
I can risk it now," he mused, and then, in a crisp, hard voice,
he suddenly said: "I don't mind parting with a twenty-pound note,
Casimir, if you will tell me all you know about that beauty. You