For a moment the Russian General's face swelled apoplectically. Then he
recovered himself with a tremendous effort.

"Wait!" he said, with awful calm. "Wait till to-morrow night! I'll show
him! Went very well, did he? Ha! Took eleven calls, did he? Oh, ha, ha!
And he'll take them to-morrow night, too! Only"--and here his voice
took on a note of fiendish purpose so terrible that, hardened scout as
he was, Clarence felt his flesh creep--"only this time they'll be
catcalls!"

And, with a shout of almost maniac laughter, the jealous artiste flung
himself into a chair, and began to pull off his boots.

Clarence silently withdrew. The hour was very near.




Chapter 7

THE BIRD


The Grand Duke Vodkakoff was not the man to let the grass grow under
his feet. He was no lobster, no flat-fish. He did it now--swift,
secret, deadly--a typical Muscovite. By midnight his staff had their
orders.

Those orders were for the stalls at the Lobelia.