"Well, Mr. Bawdsey, if that is your name," said George, good-humoredly, "it is a good thing I have saved your life. But you seem as though you could--" "I can--I can," interrupted Bawdsey, anticipating the remark. "But have you ever heard of that disease--fear of open spaces?" "No," replied Brendon, "what is it?" "I shan't give you the medical name," said Bawdsey, "as you would not understand. But it is a dread to cross any open space. At times it takes me unexpectedly, and I get a sort of paralysis of the will and cannot move. That was why I stopped in the middle of the road. I should have been killed but for you." "Perhaps I had better see you home, then," said Brendon. "No. I shall take a cab. It is only now and then that the thing takes me. It can't be cured and maybe it will get worse. At present it does not prevent me attending to my work. Come home with me and I'll tell you more. I live in No. 43 Amelia Square." "What, in that house?" cried George, for this was the number of the Jersey mansion. "Yes. What do you know of it?" "Nothing." "Oh, yes, you do; but you won't trust me. However, I'll see you again, and I'll trust you. Take care of Lola Velez. She means you harm." The next moment he was gone, and George was staring after him. CHAPTER VIII A BACCHANTE Lola Velez was the rage for a season. She sprang into fame in a single night, and thenceforth held an undisputed position as the favorite of the London public. She was not exceptionally handsome, nor was her dancing distinguished by any special grace; but about her there was something weird and original, which appealed to her audience. Such an extraordinary dancer had never been seen on the stage. She capered like one in a frenzy, with mad leaps and bounds, and throughout her orgiastic performance behaved as one possessed. It was not so much the poetry of motion as the madness of movement. George Brendon had been instrumental in introducing her to the public, and she owed her position as much to his kindness as to her own genius. It was a snowy winter's night when Brendon found her. He had just entered Pembroke Square, where he had lodgings, when he heard a moan. Turning aside into the shadow of a wall he found a woman lying there, exhausted with cold and hunger. Always anxious to do good, he brought the poor creature to his rooms. Under the influence of food and wine and warmth she revived sufficiently to tell her story.