Clinging to Gethryn, Yvonne passed down the long corridor to the vestibule, while Elliott and Rowden silently gathered up the masks and opera glasses. Clifford stood holding her crushed and splintered fan. He looked at Elliott, who looked gloomily back at him, as Braith entered hurriedly. “What’s the matter? I saw something was wrong from the floor. Rex ill?” “Ill at ease,” said Clifford, grimly. “There’s a sister turned up. A devil of a sister.” Braith spoke very low. “Yvonne’s sister?” “Yes, a she-devil.” “Did you hear her name?” “Name’s Nina.” Braith went quietly out again. Passing blindly down the lobby, he ran against Mr Bulfinch. Mr Bulfinch was in charge of a policeman. “Hello, Braith!” he called, hilariously. Braith was going on with a curt nod when the other man added: “I’ve taken it out of Pick,” and he stopped short. “I got my two hundred francs worth,” the artist of the _London Mirror_ proceeded, “and now I shall feel bound to return you yours—the first time I have it,” he ended, vaguely. Braith made an impatient gesture. “Are you under arrest?” “Yes, I am. He couldn’t help it,” smiling agreeably at the Sergeant de Ville. “He saw me hit him.” The policeman looked stolid. “But what excuse?” began Braith. “Oh! none! Pick just passed me, and I felt as if I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I pitched in.” “Well, and now you’re in for fine and imprisonment.” “I suppose so,” said Bulfinch, beaming. “Have you any money with you?” “No, unless I have some in your pocket?” said the little man, with a mixture of embarrassment and bravado that touched Braith, who saw what the confession cost him. “Lots!” said he, cordially. “But first let us try what we can do with Bobby. Do you ever drink a petit verre, Monsieur le Sergeant de Ville?” with a winning smile to the wooden policeman. The latter looked at the floor. “No,” said he. “Never?” “Never!” “Well, I was only thinking that over on the Corner of the Rue Taitbout one finds excellent wine at twenty francs.” The officer now gazed dreamily at the ceiling. “Mine costs forty,” he said. And a few minutes later the faithful fellow stood in front of the Opera house quite alone. CHAPTER X. The cab rolled slowly over the Pont au Change, and the wretched horse fell into a walk as he painfully toiled up the hill of St Michel. Yvonne lay back in the corner; covered with all her own wraps and Gethryn’s overcoat, she shivered. “Poor little Yvonne!” was all he said as he leaned over now and then to draw the cloak more closely around her. Not a sound but the rumble of the wheels and the wheezing of the old horse broke the silence. The streets were white and deserted. A few ragged flakes fell from the black vault above, or were shaken down from the crusted branches. The cab stopped with a jolt. Yvonne was trembling as Rex lifted her to the ground, and he hurried her into the house, up the black stairway and into their cold room.