It was pleasant, brisk walking. The air had a touch of early frost in it. Gethryn swung along at a good pace, pulling his cap down and fastening the last button of his coat. The trees threw long shadows across the path, hiding it from view, except where the moonlight fell white on the moist gravel. The moon herself was past the full and not very bright; a film of mist was drawing over the sky. Gethryn, looking up, thought of that gentle moon which once sailed ghostlike at high noon through the blue zenith among silver clouds while a boy lay beside the stream with rod and creel; and then he remembered the dear old yellow moon that used to flood the nursery with pools of light and pile strange moving shades about his bed. And then he saw, still looking up, the great white globe that hung above the frozen river, striking blue sparks from the ringing skates. He felt lonely and a trifle homesick. For the first time in his life—he was still so young—he thought of his childhood and his boyhood as something gone beyond recall. He had nearly reached his destination; just before him the path entered a patch of pine woods and emerged from it, shortly, upon the flat-topped rock which he was seeking. Under the first arching branches he stopped and looked back at the marred moon in the mist-covered sky. “I am sick of this wandering,” he thought. “Wane quickly! Your successor shall shine on my home: Yvonne’s and mine.” And, thinking of Yvonne, he passed into the shadows which the pines cast upon the Schicksalfels. CHAPTER XVII. Paris lay sparkling under a cold, clear sky. The brilliant streets lay coiled along the Seine and stretched glittering from bank to bank, from boulevard to boulevard; cafés, brasseries, concert halls and theaters in the yellow blaze of gas and the white and violet of electricity. It was not late, but people who entered the lobby of the Theater Fauvette turned away before the placard “Standing room only.” Somewhere in the city a bell sounded the hour, and with the last stroke the drop curtain fell on the first act of “La Belle Hélène.” It fell amidst a whirlwind of applause, in which the orchestra led. The old leader of the violins shook his head, however. He had been there twenty years, and he had never before heard of such singing in comic opera. “No, no,” he said, “she can’t stay here. Dame! she sings!” Madame Bordier was pale and happy; her good husband was weak with joy. The members of the troupe had not yet had time to be jealous and they, too, applauded. As for the house, it was not only conquered, it was wild with enthusiasm. The lobbies were thronged. Braith ran up against Rowden and Elliott. “By Jove!” they cried, with one voice, “who’d have thought the little girl had all that in her? I say, Braith, does Rex know about her? When is he coming?” “Rex doesn’t know and doesn’t care. Rex is cured,” said Braith. “And he’s coming next week. Where’s Clifford?” he added, to make a diversion.