"I haven't changed my opinion," is Ashley's response. "I believe that Phillip Van Zandt is or was Ernest Stanley."
"Well, we have him located, at any rate," remarks the detective. "See you at the French ball to-morrow night? I am on the lookout for a couple of gentry whom I expect to be there. This is my station. Good-night."
CHAPTER XXI.
"DON CAESAR DE BAZAN."
The big French ball, that annual revel at the metropolis,
brings together a motley assemblage of the devotees
of folly. The scene at the entrance to Madison Square
Garden to-night is the same scene witnessed at this
function the year preceding, and the year before that.
A mass of cabs and carriages in apparently inextricable
confusion fill the street. They struggle up and deposit
their fares and escorts and chaperons fight their way
through the mob that blocks the brilliantly lighted entrance,
and not always without an unpleasant encounter.
Upon the threshold of the gay interior Louise Hathaway pauses diffidently and thanks fortune that a mask hides her face from the inquisitive stares around her. But led by Jack Ashley, Louise and Mr. Felton proceed to a box and once within its shelter the young girl gives herself up to an unmixed enjoyment of the brilliant spectacle before her.
The scene is decorous, even sedate. Few acquaintances have been made, and when the strains of "Loin du Bal" arise in voluptuous swell only a small number of dancers respond.
"Why this is as proper as one of our country dances, and far less noisy," Louise whispers to Ashley, but that knowing young man winks mysteriously behind his mask and remarks: "Wait!"
"Oh, but I shan't wait," is the young lady's response.
