"There is but little I can do; Carmontelle takes it all out of my hands," he mused. "Perhaps it is better so; he is rich, free." A sigh that surprised himself, and he walked on a little faster until he reached the gate by which he had left the garden. Here he stopped, tapped softly, and waited. But there was no reply to his knock, although he rapped again. Evidently she had gone into the house. "I shall have to go in," he thought, shrinking from the encounter with the wicked madame and her partner in villainy, M. Remond. Madame was at the piano, Remond turning the leaves of her music while she rendered a brilliant _morceau_. His hasty glance around the room did not find the little ma'amselle. "She will be here presently," he decided, as he returned with what grace he could Mme. Lorraine's effusive greeting. She was looking even lovelier than last night, in a costume of silvery silk that looked like the shimmer of moonlight on a lake. Her white throat rose from a mist of lace clasped by a diamond star. In her rich puffs of dark hair nestled white Niphetos roses shedding their delicate perfume about her as she moved with languid grace. The costume had been chosen for him. She had a fancy that it would appeal to his sense of beauty and purity more than her glowing robes of last night. She was right. He started with surprise and pleasure at the dazzling sight, but the admiration was quickly succeeded by disgust. "So beautiful, yet so wicked!" he said, to himself. "You were singing. Pray go on," he said, forcing her back to the piano. It would be easier to sit and listen than to take part in the conversation with his mind on the _qui vive_ for the entrance of her he had come to save. He listened mechanically to the sentimental Italian _chanson_ madame chose, but kept his eyes on the door, expecting every minute to see a _petite_ white form enter the silken portals. Remond saw the watchfulness, and scowled with quick malignity. "Other eyes than mine watch for her coming," he thought. The song went on. The minutes waned. Van Zandt furtively consulted his watch. "Past ten. What if that wicked woman has already forced her to retire?" he thought, in alarm, and the minutes dragged like leaden weights. "Oh, if I could but slip into the garden. Perhaps she is there still, fallen asleep like a child on the garden-seat." Mme. Lorraine's high, sweet voice broke suddenly in upon his thoughts. "Monsieur, you sing, I am sure. With those eyes it were useless to deny it. You will favor us?" He was about to refuse brusquely, when a thought came to him. She would hear his voice, she would hasten to him, and the message of hope must be whispered quickly ere it was too late. He saw Remond watching him with sarcastic eyes, and said, indifferently: "I can sing a little from a habit of helping my sisters at home. And I belong to a glee club. If these scant recommendations please you, I will make an effort to alarm New Orleans with my voice."