of Tremaine, but I have never met his equal for daring, for audacity, for personal magnetism. In the days that followed, I was to see less and less of him, but the memory of those first evenings is a living and vivid one. I can see him sitting there yet before me with his wonderful eyes, his expressive face, his lithe, graceful form and his slim, white nervous hand holding his cigarette. I found myself speculating sometimes as to his nationality. French he seemed unquestionably by temperament, and yet he spoke English with a facility and carelessness unusual in a foreigner. I was often tempted to ask him, straight out, but a feeling of hesitation always held me back. I came at last to the conclusion that he was of French parentage, but had lived in England or America probably from his youth.
I had just come in from dinner one evening and was settling down to a reperusal of “L’Affaire Lerouge,” when there came a knock at the door and Tremaine entered. He was in evening dress and was seemingly much perturbed.
“My dear Lester,” he began abruptly, in that quick, nervous way of his, “I’m in the deuce of a box, and I’m going to ask you to help me out. I promised Cecily to take her tonight to see the extravaganza at the New York and have the seats here, but at the last moment I find I can’t get away. I’ve a business engagement that I can’t afford to break, but Cecily will never forgive me if I disappoint her. Have you anything on for tonight?”
“No,” I answered, looking at him in some astonishment, for it was evident what was coming.
