Professor Herman Judson, sir—of the School of the Worship of Beauty. These—ah—young ladies whom you have seen here tonight are a few of my pupils. We believe that the old ideals—the old thought—of ancient Greece is a living, motivating thing today, just as it was in centuries gone by. We assert sir, that the religion of beauty which actuated the Greeks is still a living, vital thing. We believe that the old gods are not dead; but come to those who woo them with the ancient rite of song and the dance. In fine, sir, we are pagans—apostles of the religion of neo-paganism!"
He drew himself up to his full height, which could not have exceeded five feet six inches, and glared defiantly at de Grandin, as though expecting a shocked protest at his announcement.
The Frenchman's smile became wider and blander than ever. "Capital, Monsieur," he congratulated. "Anyone with the eye of a blind man could see that you are the very personality to head such an incontestably sensible school of thought. The expertness with which your pupils perform their dances shows that they have a teacher worthy of all your claims. We do felicitate you most heartily, Monsieur. Meantime"—he slipped the pack from his shoulders and lowered it to the pavement—"you will undoubtlessly permit that we shall pass the night here? No?"
"We-ell," the professor's doubt gave way slowly; "you seem to be more appreciative than the average modern barbarian. Yes, you may remain here overnight; but you must be off in the morning—early in the morning, mind you. Never do to have the neighbors seeing strange men coming from this place. Understand?"
"Perfectly, Monsieur," de Grandin answered with a bow. "And, if we might make so bold, may we trespass on your hospitality for a bite—the merest morsel of food?"
"U'm, pay for it?" the other demanded dubiously.
"But assuredly," de Grandin replied, producing a roll of bills. "It would cause us the greatest anguish, I do assure you, if it were ever said that we accepted the hospitality of the great Professor 'Erman Judson without making adequate return."
"Very well," the professor assented, and hurried through a door at the farther end of the apartment, returning in a few minutes with a tray of cold roast veal, warm, ripe apples, a loaf of white bread and a jug of more than legally strong, sour wine.
"Ah," de Grandin boasted as he washed down a sandwich with a draft of the acid liquor, "did I not tell you we should spend the night here, Friend Trowbridge?"
"You certainly made good your promise," I agreed as I shoved the remains of my meal from me, undid my pack and prepared to pillow my head on my rolled-up jacket. "See you in the morning, old fellow."
"Very good," he agreed. "Meantime, I go out of doors to smoke a last cigarette before I join you in sleep."
I might have slept an hour, perhaps a little more, when a sharp, insistent poke in my ribs woke me sufficiently to understand the words whispered fiercely in my ear. "Trowbridge, Trowbridge, my friend,”
Jules de Grandin breathed so low I could scarcely make out the syllables. "This house, it is not all as it should be, I fear me."
"Eh, what's that?" I demanded sleepily, sitting up and blinking half comprehendingly at his dim outline in the semidarkness of the big room.
"S-s-sh, not so loud," he cautioned, then leaned nearer, speaking rapidly: "Do you know from whence your
