Smith," observed Wood. I want to get away—to go to London. You are the High Priestess of Life. “For instance?” She smiled. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. She rode him gently. He drew out the check and the editorial letter. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. Wood, meanwhile, had summoned his men-servants, and having armed them with such weapons as could be found, they proceeded to the garden, where the first object they encountered was Thames Darrell, extended on the ground, and weltering in his blood. .
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