golden on the gleaming Danube, and the purple shadows began to steal
over the old fortress high uplifted there above Hungary's capital.
Here was a truant beauty escaped from a land of dreams.

Clayton had followed the unknown over Broadway's dangerously choked
throat, before the music roll gave him his clue. He was now in the
musical center of New York, and in proximity to the modest foreign
theaters where a conscientious art flourishes, as yet unknown to
the garish play-houses of upper Broadway.

Some visiting singer, some transplanted "Kunstlerinn," he conjectured
as, never ceasing that queenly stride, the unknown crossed Fourth
Avenue toward the vicinity of Steinway's and the Irving Place
Theater.

As yet he had not seen that bewitching face again, for he was a
laggard in pursuit, his coward conscience smiting him for his first
errant detour.

It seemed as if the money in that portmanteau rustled a portentous
warning, but "a spirit in his feet" led him to execute a quick
left-flank movement as he sped first across the triangle, passing
under the shadow of the Washington statue (pride of the job brass
founder), and, with a stolen side glance, he surveyed the lady
once more, as she leisurely mounted the steps of the "Restaurant
Bavaria."

His eyes dropped in a strange confusion as he once more met the
sweetly serious glance of those wonderful eyes, now resting upon
him with a gleam of vaguely timid inquiry. The delicately moulded