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The two men still remained on their feet. "Quick, Achille!" For the far gondola was heading for the Grand Canal. Merrihew understood now. He grasped Hillard's arm excitedly. "Follow!" commanded Hillard. "Ten lire if you can come up alongside that gondola. Can you see the number?" "It is 152, signore; Pompeo. It will be a race," doubtfully. "No matter; follow. It will be worth your while."

Once Merrihew saw a fine old gentleman wearing the Honor Legion ribbon in his buttonhole, and his heart grew warm and proud. Here was an order which was not to be purchased like the Order of Leopold and the French Legion of Honor. To win this simple order a man must prove his courage under fire, must be the author of an heroic exploit on the battle-field.

Merrihew, Kitty, O'Mally and Smith were in the dark as to what had passed verbally; they could only surmise. But here was something they all understood. La Signorina was first to recover. She sprang toward the combatants and grasped Hillard's hand, the one buried in the prince's throat, and pulled. She was not strong enough. "Merrihew, O'Mally, quick! He is killing him!" she cried wildly.

Merrihew had played the numbers, the dozens, the columns, the colors, odd and even. Sometimes he would win a little, but a moment later the relentless rake would drag it back to the bank. His chance to play the good Samaritan to the derelicts of the American Comic Opera Company was fast approaching the dim horizon of lost opportunities.

"That'll clear your brain of this sentimental fog." "No!" Hillard struck his hands together. "I've a better idea than that, and it has just come to me. I shall go to Italy in March, and you, my boy, shall go with me." "Impossible! Why, I'm all but broke." Merrihew shook his head decidedly. "I'll take you as a companion. I'm a sick man, Dan.

To find the women by this stroke of luck, and then to lose them again for two boxes of cigars! It was maddening! As a matter of fact, Merrihew had forgotten all about them, so far as intentional wrong-doing was concerned. The inspector went through Merrihew's possessions with premeditated leisure. Everything had to come out.

The woman with Kitty is the woman I'm going to find if I stay in Europe ten years. And when I find her, I'm going to marry her." "Sounds good," said Merrihew, pouring himself a third glass of very indifferent Beaune. "And they may be going anywhere but to Monte Carlo Paris, Cherbourg, Calais. In my opinion, Monte Carlo is the last place two such women are likely to go to alone."

Corlis has no more right to cross foils with you than I have; and yet he goes in for the finals, while you are out of it. Where's your eye? Where's your grip?" Hillard chalked his cue silently. "And when I make a proposition," pursued Merrihew, "to ride to the Catskills and back something you would have jumped at a year ago you shake your head. Think of it!

"In a few days I shall write you; in this letter I promise to explain everything. And you will forgive me, I know." "Forgive you? For what? There is nothing to forgive on my side; the gift is on yours. For I have been a meddler, an unhappy one." "Will you and Mr. Merrihew go now? I do not wish you two to witness this scene." "Leave you alone with this wretch? No!" said Hillard.

The prima donna was singing the jewel-song from Faust, and not badly. Sometimes the low hum of voices floated across the cadence of the song. Merrihew scanned the faces of all those near him, but never a face took on familiar lines. An Adriatic liner loomed up gray and shadowy behind them, and some of the crew were leaning idly over the rail. The song stopped.