In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Just as he reached them, the Comte de St Erme drew Valade a little apart and began to converse with him in rapid French. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. I must leave England to-night. Thanks. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. I can get that at the bar," the manager said, curtly. " "But why not?" The doctor dallied with his teaspoon.
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