ight, Reginald Clarke made his way down Broadway, lying stret

ctivities. On the street, as in the salon, his magnetic power compelled recognition

n the glare of electricity, like mystical serpent-eyes-green, pomegranate and water-blue. And as he stood there the dazzling radi

waying airily to and fro in unison with the tune. One especially attracted his notice-a slim olive-coloured girl from a land where it is always spring. Her whole being translated into music, with hair dishevelled and feet h

r that the stranger's persistent scrutiny embarrassed her?-the music oozed out of her movements. They grew slower, angular, almost clumsy. The look

tions of the populace, swarming through Broadway in either direction. Like the giant whose strength was rekindled ev

tled him to enter this sordid wilderness of décolleté art. Street-snipes, a few workingmen, dilapidated sportsmen, and women whose ruined youth thick layers of powder and paint, even in this artificial light, could not restore, constituted the bulk of the audience. Reginald Clarke, apparently unconscious of the curiosity, surprise and envy that his appearance excited, seated

ant. When, however, she came to the burden of the song, Clarke's manner changed suddenly. Laying down his cigar, he listened with rapt attention, eagerly gazing at her. For, as she sang the last line and tore t

adness of which suggested the plaint of souls moaning low a

ched the refrain. As she sang the opening lines of the last stanza, an inscrutable smile curled on Clarke's lips. She noticed the