Business Rivals

by Henry C. Rowland

Business Rivals

 

Dominica Meduna has already found a place among the striking and original fiction-characters of recent years, and her adventures have become one of the most looked-for features in the galaxy of Cosmopolitan offerings. This, the fourth of her remarkable escapades, is certainly the most exciting which the fearless young woman has yet encountered, and it also throws new light into some of the depths of her real personality.

 

By Henry C. Rowland

Author of “Jabez's Conquest,” and other Dominica Meduna stories

 

“UNLESS something turns up pretty soon,” said Señor Emilio Braga, “we shall be forced to one of two most disagreeable expedients—that of turning a trick ourselves or of trying to make an honest living.” He frowned and began to weave little circles on the table with the bottom of his wine-glass. “Never in all of my experience can I remember when business has been so dull—for me, at least.”

Dominica leaned forward to sip her orangeade, and her deep-violet eyes looked at him thoughtfully over the rim of her goblet, as she slowly sipped the cooling beverage.

“You must break yourself of that habit of making circles with your glass, Emilio,” said she. “Some day it may get you into trouble.”

“Sapristi! There does not seem to be any chance of getting into trouble!” growled the Argentino. “I cannot understand it. There have been six important jobs in the last three months and not a thing has been brought to me. I have questioned Durand and several others, and none of them can throw any light on the matter. Either there is an able mob that we know nothing about at work in Paris, or else it is the doing of some single and brilliant operator.”

“But who can it be?” murmured Dominica, and began to check off on her pretty fingers a considerable acquaintanceship of cracksmen, passing each in turn, for burglars, like other craftsmen, have, when high in their profession, certain lines of technique known to their cult, and Dominica had made the same study of the more distinguished criminal artists that an authority on painting might make of the great masters.

“Who can it be?” repeated Braga. “That, my dear Nica, is precisely what we have got to find out if we care to continue our present occupation. At times, I am almost inclined to believe that some brilliant amateur has taken the field. What makes me think so is this: During the last few years I have become known in the criminal world as the safest and most liberal 'fence' in Europe. Thieves throughout Great Britain and the Continent know that I can get them better prices for their plunder than anybody else, and at far less risk. It is known that I am here in Paris, and I can't understand why some of this recently stolen stuff should not have come my way, unless it is the work of a new hand who is not acquainted.”

Braga's incisive voice held the bitter note of that of a high financier who feels that there are big operations going on around him and is at a loss to trace their source.

“How do you expect to go about finding out?” asked Dominica.

“The only way at present is to watch the runaways. If we can once spot this interloper, it won't take long to land him in the Santé. He's getting all the honey out of the hive, and some of the rest of us are going to get stung. I saw something this morning in a social note of La Vie de Paris which will be worth our while to keep track of. Did you ever hear of the Misses Macfarland who live out on the Avenue Henri Martin?”

Dominica nodded. “Those two rich American old maids?” she asked.

“The same. They've lived in Paris for the last fifteen years and have the reputation of being very rich and somewhat eccentric. Some years ago there was a good story about their having declined the opportunity to meet King Edward because, as one of them said, 'no woman who values her reputation should risk being seen en tête-à-tête with Edward the Seventh.'”

Dominica laughed. “I've seen them walking on the Avenue du Bois, and they always reminded me of a picture in an American comic paper of a giraffe with a big hat—a 'picture' hat.”

“Those are the ladies,” said Braga. “One is named Primrose and the other Pansy. She gives it the French spelling and signs herself, 'Pensée.' It appears that Primrose's birthday comes in May and, Pensée's in September. According to the article which-I read this morning, it has been their habit for years to give a birthday party on each occasion or, at least, a dinner to a few select friends. The one whose birthday it is always finds upon her plate a jewel of some sort as her sister's gift.”

“A good one?” asked Dominica.

“On the last birthday, which was Primrose's,” said Braga dryly, “there was a Bartier pearl pendant valued at one hundred thousand francs.”

“How nice!” murmured Dominica.

Braga took from his case an Argentine cigarette which had been made in Spain, lighted it, and inhaled deeply, saying, as the smoke eddied languidly from his lungs:

“On these festive soirées it is the custom for Primrose and Pensée to wear all—or nearly all—of their previous birthday presents. The new gift is passed around from hand to hand, and the guests examine it nervously and wonder if they are going to be subjected to a search before leaving the house. So far, this has never happened, and the next day the bulk of the jewelry goes back to the safe-deposit.”

“That sounds like a good job for somebody,” said Dominica.

“So it strikes me,” Braga answered, “and it has occurred to me that it may possibly strike our unknown colleague as a good job for him. It is precisely in his line of work, and the chance comes but twice in the year. Besides the servants there are only the two old girls in the house. The chef, maître d'hôtel, and lady's-maid are Italians, and there is a French housemaid.”

“How did you find out about the servants?” Dominica asked.

Braga smiled. “I have had my eye on the house for some time. The Italian lady's-maid, Giovanna, is quite a flirt of mine. I followed her one night to the St. Didier skating-rink and gave an instructor five francs to present me. Since then I have met her several times. She thinks that I am maître d'hôtel in a Venezuelan family on the Avenue Victor Hugo.”

“So that is why you shaved off your mustache,” said Dominica.

“That and other reasons. Now what I have in mind is this: I want you to help me watch the Macfarland house the night of the dinner-party. They are always big affairs—at least a dozen guests. Can't you put on your Italian boy's costume and take your mandola and hang about in front of the house? You can sing a few Neapolitan airs and beg a few sous from the arriving guests, then go and sit on the street-bench and munch some bread and cheese. With that deep contralto of yours, you have only to give them 'Funiculi Funicula,' and——”

“I think that I can do better than that,” interrupted Dominica.

“In what way?” Braga asked.

“You leave that to me,” said Dominica. “I've never failed you yet, have I?”

II

Miss Primrose Macfarland, with the assistance of her pretty Roman maid, Giovanna, was most pleasantly engaged in creating a head-dress to be worn the night of the dinner-party to be given in honor of her sister Pensée's birthday.

It was a marvelous piece of work, the head-dress, and looked, when nearly completed, as though the goddess Ceres had emptied her cornucopia upon the crown of the elderly spinster without reference to taste or expense. There were things which suggested plumes of nodding corn and pumpkin-vines in blossom, and even cherries standing straight on their stems, defying the gentle frosts of the silvering hair beneath.

Primrose was about to try the effect of her creation before the glass when the maître d'hôtel came up to say that a young lady had called and asked the privilege of a few words with the signorina.

“What is she?” snapped Primrose, vexed at the interruption. “What does she want? Did she send up no card?”

“No, signorina,” said the butler. “She is a young Italian lady—a Venetian, I should say, from her accent. I think that you might as well see her,” he added, with the unconscious familiarity of the old Italian house-servant.

“Very well,” said Primrose; “let her wait in the antichambre.”

“Of course,” said Leonardo, and shuffled out.

Primrose descended presently and found Dominica perched demurely on the edge of a bogus prelate's chair, while Leonardo made pretense of dusting a few dishonest paintings in tempera, supposed to be unsigned studies of old Italian masters, but in reality most cryptic of origin to all but Leonardo, who had “discovered” them in an old shop in Bassano, in which picturesque hamlet on the edge of the Dolomites his very aged parents lived in peasant luxury on his bounties, thanking God daily that their son had found service in the family of some rich Americans.

Dominica rose with a shy salutation that was almost a curtsy.

“You wish to see me?” said Primrose, in her best Roman. “I am Miss Macfarland.”

Her argus eyes examined Dominica from head to foot, noted the girl's unusual type of beauty with a certain cold appreciation, and rested on her poor attempt at being well dressed, for Dominica's little street-costume, while well fitting and of good stuff, showed hard service.

Dominica raised her violet eyes appealingly.

“I hope you will excuse me for disturbing you, signorina,” said she, in her soft Venetian. “I am here in Paris, studying for my voice. I saw in the Vie de Paris that you were to give a soirée, and I thought that perhaps you might be willing to let me sing. If you would be so kind, I should be glad to do it for no pay, as the réclame of singing in your house would help me so much later on in getting concert work.”

“Humph!” grunted Primrose. “But can you really sing?”

“If the signorina would care to hear my voice—” murmured Dominica. “It is not an operatic voice, but they tell me that it is sympathetic. I might have sung in the Opéra Comique before now—but there were certain things that an honest girl—” She looked down at the floor.

“I quite understand,” said Miss Primrose primly. “It is not necessary to go into detailed explanations. The main point is: Have you really a voice?”

Dominica looked up eagerly. “I see that the signorina understands,” she said, with the slightest lisp. “When I saw that you were to entertain guests, it occurred to me that you might be willing to let me sing.”

“Why?” asked Primrose, curtly.

“Because the signorina is so much in Italy that I thought she might like our Italian folk-songs,” said Dominica. “I know them all. I can sing you the Italian version of the German-Swiss cow-song; what the French-Swiss call the ranz des vaches. Our Veneto song is far prettier.”

“Let me hear you sing it,” said Primrose. “Can you play your own accompaniment?”

Dominica gave her a look of surprise.

“Of course, signorina,” said she, “on any instrument.”

“Indeed? You must be quite an accomplished musician.”

“We are a musical family,” said Dominica modestly.

“Let us go into the salon,” said Miss Primrose, “and you may sing me something. What is your name?”

“Dominica Meduna,” answered Dominica, who saw no reason for concealing her true identity. She had never been known to the police as a criminal, although known to have associated with suspicious characters, and she thought it possible that the patronage of the rich and distinguished Misses Macfarland might some day prove to be of advantage should she ever wish to establish a claim as a private concert singer.

So she seated herself at the piano and in her throaty, sympathetic contralto sang Sir Paolo Tosti's “'Matinata.” Dominica in her early girlhood had studied to cultivate her voice with the idea of going on the stage, but had abandoned this career through a natural preference for the more exciting life of the underworld and the pleasure which she took in the society of thieves. Miss Primrose was no poor musical critic, and she was quick to realize that her caller's voice, though not a distinguished one, was extremely pleasing and showed training. She did not, however, permit herself to display enthusiasm.

“That is very pretty,” said she. “Will you sing me another?”

“With pleasure, signorina,” said Dominica, and sang “Amore,” by the same composer. Miss Primrose, listening appreciatively, decided that she was in luck. The girl's voice was quite good enough for parlor entertainment, while her unusual type of beauty (for Dominica was what is known as a “golden Venetian”) would certainly please her guests.

“Your voice is very sympathetic, signorina,” said she graciously. “I should be very pleased to have you come—let us say at ten o'clock—and sing a few selections such as you have just rendered. It is very possible that I may be able to find you some opportunities to sing at the houses of friends. I should like to know a little more about you, however. Do you live with your family here in Paris?”

“No, signorina,” said Dominica. “My family emigrated to America when I was a little girl, My father had a fruit store in New York on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, but I am now an orphan. I have not been long in Paris, and I live in a little apartment off the Boulevard Raspail.”

“Alone?” asked Miss Primrose.

“Yes, signorina; I cannot afford a maid.”

“Why did you come to Paris?”

As Dominica did not deem it advisable to inform her that she had left New York hastily, having in her care the equivalent of several thousand dollars in money and jewels, cleverly obtained by a master-cracksman known as “Gentleman Joe” from the household of a family in which Dominica was temporarily serving as lady's-maid, she replied, demurely.

“I came over here to escape the attentions of a very bad man who is quite well known in New York society. I thought that I might be able to get an engagement in the Opéra Comique or some of the music-halls. But it is everywhere the same, {signorina—” She looked appealingly at Miss Primrose and threw out her hands with a little shudder. “It is impossible for a girl who means to be honest to get on. There is always the—the price to be paid——”

“I quite understand,” interrupted Miss Primrose, nodding violently. “You need say no more, my dear.”

“And so I have given up the idea of appearing in public and wish to sing only in private houses,” murmured Dominica.

“You are quite right, my child,” said Miss Primrose. “Well, we shall see what we can do. Have you a pretty evening gown?”

“Oh, yes, signorina,” lisped Dominica; “it is very simple but quite pretty—but it is not tres décolletée. I'm afraid that it is not so chic as it might be and perhaps a bit old-fashioned—” She faltered.

“So much the better,” said Miss Primrose. “I abominate the modern styles of dress. A woman's body is her temple—the sanctum sanctorum of her soul—and why certain shameless creatures should seek to—but, there, the less said about such things the better. Thank God that I have never been tempted myself to any such vain display!”

III

Braga was much pleased at Nica's success with Miss Macfarland, not only because the girl knew by sight so many thieves but also owing to an undoubted instinct which she possessed for sensing what might be called the criminal aura of an individual. This peculiar faculty is not uncommon in vigilant and well-trained watch-dogs, and it is probable that certain people of primitive nature are similarly gifted to varying extents. From much association with criminals, Dominica had cultivated the gift, and Braga thought it possible that were she to come within the atmosphere of a wolf in sheep's clothing circulating among harmless muttons, her flair, as the French say, might react upon her sensibilities as it is said to do with a police-dog.

He reasoned, also, that a professional entrée in such a household as that of the Macfarlands might lead to other and useful opportunities later on.

The night of the dinner-party was a warm and muggy one in late September. Braga, who had decided to keep his eye upon the premises from the outside, dressed himself as a respectable maître d'hôtel, skilfully trimming the “sideboards” which he had recently cultivated. Then, to give his loitering a reasonable objective, he borrowed his concierge's fat fox-terrier, which was a sagacious animal and able to find its way home from any part of Paris if left to its own resources. The dog did not like Braga any more than Braga liked the dog, but was induced to bear him company at the end of a leash.

Braga lived near the Ternes and walked across to the head of the Avenue Henri Martin, where the Misses Macfarland lived in a detached villa of fair dimensions surrounded by a garden, the whole enclosed by a wall. The servants' entrance was by a small iron door, grilled at the top and opening upon a short, private drive which led back to three smaller villas in the rear. Nearly in front of the house, on the wide, earthy space under the trees between the sidewalk and the street, was one of the heavy wood-and-iron benches peculiar to Parisian thoroughfares, and here Braga seated himself, lighted a cigarette, and waited for the guests to arrive.

His presence was not in the slightest danger of provoking comment. For one thing, he looked so perfectly the part of a respectable butler from some of the many handsome residences of the quartier which were for the moment unoccupied, the families being off on motoring-tours, or at the late places of resort or some ville d'eau—Vichy, Evian, or Aix. The Avenue Henri Martin is rather like a park, and, the night being soft, there were frequent loiterers.

The dozen-and-odd guests of the Misses Macfarland arrived nearly at the same time, most of them coming in their handsome town cars, which departed on depositing them. These guests descended close to Braga under a brilliant street light, and he was able to distinguish them plainly. Some few he recognized by sight, among them the Italian ambassador and his wife. But he saw nothing which interested him, and, having an all-night vigil in view, he arose presently and went to a modest café on the Avenue Victor Hugo, where he sat outside under the awning and consumed café filtré and read Le Petit Parisien.

It was nearly eleven when he returned to reconnoiter the house, and here fortune appeared to favor him, for, as he stopped to try to peer through the ivy, the side gate opened and Giovanna came out with two yapping Pomeranians on a leash. Giovanna was supposed to “exercise” these pets in the garden before brushing their teeth and putting them to bed, but she preferred the broad highway as offering greater possibilities for errant pleasantries with stray chauffeurs or valets de chambre or bicycle-policemen or others.

She greeted Emilio warmly, and, in the shadow of the ivy, submitted to a fugitive caress. Giovanna was a plump and pretty girl from the Campagna, not too cold of temperament, and metropolitan life had rather gone to her head. She admired Braga profoundly, because of his careless way of spending money, his traveled air, and his dancing. Braga was teaching her the tango, at which, as an Argentino, he naturally excelled.

“How is your soirée proceeding?” asked Braga.

“Oh, it is superb!” gasped Giovanna who was apt to grow breathless on being kissed. “If you could see the table!” She jerked at the Pomeranians, who were not conducting themselves too politely under the attentions of Fi-fi, the fat and blasé fox-terrier. 'It is a mass of flowers; double pansies sent from the Midi— What a nasty little dog!”

“I'll send him home,” said Braga. “He's a dirty little beast!” He loosed Fi-fi, dextrously avoided a snap, and regarded his leisurely departure with no misgiving, knowing that he would find him snarling at the door on his late reentering.

“Mine are sweet little dogs,” said Giovanna, and fondled them, to which attention they responded warmly, shooting out their moist, velvet tongues to lick her ears. “What's the matter, Emilio? You are cross.”

“I am tired of having nothing to do,” said Braga.

“Then come in the house and drink a glass of old port,” said Giovanna. “There are enough good wines and food left over to feed a troop of rurales. Come in; I think I heard the bell. 'Ting—ting—ting!' That is for me. Come in, Emilio. Drink a glass or two of something and you won't be so cross.”

“Well, if you insist, p'tite,” growled Braga, with a good imitation of the peasant surliness which the women of that class expect. And he followed her down the private way and through the little door which led into the servants' entrance.

In the kitchen and butler's pantry, all was confusion. The dinner-company had adjourned to the salon, from which there came the sound of laughter and animated conversation. As Giovanna and Braga entered, the bell rang again.

“The signorina wishes me to bring in the dogs,” said Giovanna. “She is very proud of them, as they took the first prize in the Exposition.”

“Then I will go,” said Braga, reflecting that, in the event of a possible burglary in the house, it would be just as well not to be seen about the premises. “You are all very busy. Another time, my dear.”

Giovanna pouted, but she dared not delay longer. Braga wished her good-night and turned toward the open door. But as the girl hurried off, there came the notes of a piano, and immediately a soft contralto voice, which he recognized as Dominica's, pulsated through from the salon in the opening notes of “Amore.” The servants, extra men and all, were Italians and made their way quietly through to the dining-room to listen, and Braga, finding himself alone, was seized by a sudden temptation. Though actual burglary was not in his line, he had made his criminal début as a very adroit sneak-thief and now, seeing the place momentarily deserted and the door of the servants' stairway open upon his left, it flashed across his mind that here was a most unusual opportunity to slip up-stairs, secrete himself in some corner until the household should have gone to bed, and then possibly accomplish a piece of work.

Although he had not come expecting to make any such attempt, Braga was not entirely unprepared. He had a small automatic pistol which, since his attempt upon the life of the ex-police spy, Legrand, he never went abroad without, and he had also a pocket electric torch. So, acting on the impulse of the moment, he slipped to the back stairs, mounted stealthily, and, on reaching the broad hall of the second story and finding nobody in sight, he hurried to the front of the house, glancing warily on either side for a good place of concealment. He found it at the far end of the hall in the form of a huge Italian Renaissance chest which, on opening, he discovered to serve as a wood-box, for there were still a few kindlings inside. It was nearly six feet in length by two in width, and into this Braga crept, chinking the lid with a scrap of wood for the sake of air. As the box stood back in the shadow of some heavy portiéres, he had no fear of being discovered.

A chiming clock in the lower hall kept him informed of the flight of time. Dominica sang at intervals, and, finally, to Braga's relief, the soirée showed signs of breaking up. Women's gowns rustled the length of the hall as they came up to put on their wraps, and he heard Giovanna's sprightly patter. From the front of the house came the slamming of limousine doors, the whirring of motors, and the honk of horns. Then, at last, up came the two hostesses, as Braga could tell from their forms of address. His chest appeared to be beside the door of Miss Primrose's room, for he heard the rustle of her gown as she entered, and a moment later her voice telling Giovanna that she had no further need of her and bidding her go to bed.

Miss Pensée's room appeared to be at the other end of the house and across the hall for, as Braga listened intently, hoping that some mention might be made of the disposition of the jewels, he heard her call,

“When you are ready for bed, Prim dear, come in and kiss me good-night.”

“Very well, dear,” Miss Primrose answered, and in a few minutes Braga heard the swish of her peignoir as she passed down the hall. He waited for a minute or two, and then, judging from the chatter that the sisters were in animated conversation, he took a swift resolution. Half a loaf was better than no bread, and Braga thought it very possible that Miss Primrose might have left her jewels on the dressing-table before putting them in a place of safety.

Noiselessly raising the lid of the chest, he crept out and slipped into the room with the silence of a black cat. A glance at the dressing-table failed to discover anything of greater value than some silver toilet-articles. Braga made a swift examination of the drawers, but without success. He was looking desperately around him when, to his horror, he heard a “Good-night, dear,” from the farther end of the hall and the returning rustle of Miss Primrose.

When she saw him she did not shriek. She had, in fact, no time to shriek before Braga's hand was clapped over her mouth. She gave but one convulsive gasp, then sank limply to the floor.

Braga fled swiftly and silently down the hall, down the main stairway, through the rear of the house, and out into the night. He was turning the corner of the street, walking not too fast when, from the Macfarland villa, his ears were greeted by piercing screams.

IV

It had taken Dominica about five minutes after her arrival at the Misses Macfarland's to discover the identity of the business rival whose operations had so puzzled Braga and herself.

It was really a very simple matter. Dominica, going to the piano to sing her first piece, the accompaniment to which was played by a semiprofessional guest, had caught a glimpse of a face instantly known to her, despite the fact that when she had last seen it, the cruel, rapacious features had been adorned by a pair of big, bushy eyebrows and a huge mustache farouche. Now, as her quick eyes discovered it for a second turned upon her from the doorway leading to the antichambre, the eyebrows were dark and penciled and closely trimmed and mustache there was none; yet Dominica recognized it instantly as belonging to the former police spy, Legrand.

For a moment, Dominica thought that Legrand might be there on legitimate business, as, after being cashiered by the préfecture, he had opened a private-detective agency. But turning the matter in her mind, even as she sang, she decided that the man was out on bigger business than the protection of the property of another. From his dress, he was apparently serving in the capacity of an extra servant engaged for the occasion.

The discovery excited Dominica and put into her voice a throbbing quality which the delighted guests ascribed to emotion of a different sort. They would have been interested to know that the passionate intensity of her notes was due to her discovery of a thief who had got into the house to steal the marvelous jewels which had excited so much admiration and envy, and that the demure and lovely girl so charmingly entertaining them was thinking less of her music than of how to deal with the situation so as to get her share of them.

As Miss Primrose was not paying for her services, she did not work Dominica too hard, and at the end of an hour the girl departed, having made a most excellent impression. She was in a hurry to return to her apartment, change her clothes, and get back to inform Braga of her discovery.

In order to be less conspicuous, Dominica decided to wear her costume of an Italian boy street-singer, which consisted of a pair of baggy corduroy trousers, tight around the ankles and held about the waist by a twisted red-woolen sash, a loose blouse with a neckerchief, and a peaked felt hat which hid her hair and the upper part of her face—the whole being sufficiently soiled and shabby to fit the rôle. She slung her mandola from her shoulder and slipped out into the street, making her way back to the Avenue Henri Martin on foot. She arrived in time to see the last of the guests departing, but, to her surprise and vexation, Braga did not show himself.

Worried and uneasy, Dominica sat down on the bench and waited. She was convinced that Legrand was still about the premises, either inside the house or else not far away, waiting to enter it when all should have gone to bed. The idea of two helpless women being at the mercy of such a cold-blooded devil was more than Dominica could permit. Legrand, himself, was a murderous pariah, entitled to no consideration from thief or honest man. Dominica was a thief and the ally of thieves, but she was a long way from “the complete criminal,” which supreme material egoist is, thank God, extremely rare!

Turning the situation quickly in her active mind, she decided that the easiest way to avert a possible tragedy would be to find the nearest agent de police and tell him that, while resting on a bench in front of the Macfarland house, she had seen two men climb over the wall with what appeared to be a kit of tools. The agent would immediately take the case in hand, and Legrand might be captured—which, after all, was the best thing that could happen for Dominica, Braga, and society at large.

Dominica was therefore about to slip off her bench and put this plan in execution, when the front door of the villa swung open, letting out a flood of light. A moment later Leonardo opened the garden gate and bade good-night to a tall young man, whom Dominica recognized as Mr. Macfarland, a nephew of the maiden ladies. He had complimented her singing, and Dominica had overheard him asking Miss Pensée about her. She had placed him immediately as a dilettante painter, having heard some mention of “tea in my studio before I go to Cannes.” But what now interested Dominica was what Mr. Macfarland had tucked under his arm. Her early education as lady's-maid in fashionable families enabled her to recognize it immediately as a jewel-case. The situation became immediately clear to her. Mr. Macfarland was custodian of his aunt's jewels until they could be returned to the safe-deposit.

“Where the deuce is my car?” demanded Mr. Macfarland, as Leonardo showed him out.

The crabbed old butler peered into the street. Neither of the men observed Dominica, crouched in the shadows at the end of her bench.

“I told him to be here at half-past twelve sharp!” snapped Macfarland.

“These chauffeurs are all alike,” grumbled Leonardo. “To-morrow he will tell you that he had an accident to his tires or something of the sort. You had better come inside and wait.”

“No,” said Macfarland; “call a taxi.”

Leonardo whistled, but without result.

“Confound it!” said Macfarland. “I'll walk down to the Rue de la Pompe, where there's a stand.”

“You had better come inside and wait, sir,” grunted Leonardo. “I can telephone.”

“Oh, no,” said Macfarland, tucking the leather case under his arm; “it's only a step. Good-night!” And he turned on his heel and set off briskly.

Dominica swung her legs off the bench and followed him, keeping close to the curb in the shadow of the trees. Her mind was working quickly. She had no doubt at all that the absence of Macfarland's car was Legrand's doing. He had probably gone out and told the chauffeur that he need not wait, that Mr. Macfarland was spending the night with his aunts, or something of the sort. Dominica, knowing the ropes as she did, thought it very possible that Legrand might be even at that moment waiting for Macfarland in his studio. She did not want Macfarland killed. She had liked his face and the kindly courtesy of his tone when, in a pleasant voice, he had thanked her for her songs.

On the other hand, she did not see how she could warn him of his danger without the risk of recognition, for he would undoubtedly question her fully, in which case her voice as well as her face might betray her. She had to make up her mind quickly, for Macfarland lighted his cigarette and walked on again. Dominica hesitated no longer. Cost her what it might, he should be put upon his guard. She slipped out from under the shadow of the trees and was hurrying to overtake him when she saw a dark figure emerge from behind the corner of the wall on a side street which Macfarland was approaching. It was that of a man in evening dress, wearing a chapeau de forme and a light overcoat, but as Dominica drew near she recognized Legrand.

Macfarland had heard the patter of footsteps behind him and, realizing that he had under his arm about a million francs' worth of jewels, was not caught altogether napping. He glanced back and seeing a few paces behind him what appeared to be a little street musician with a mandolin swung from his shoulder, felt no alarm. He also observed the approach of a respectable-looking man in evening dress and was reassured.

Therefore, when the gentleman approaching him paused with a polite word of apology to inquire in Provençal accents if he were on the Avenue Henri Martin, Macfarland assured him that he was, with no suspicion of felonious intent. Whereupon the stranger requested further data as to his best course for the upper end of the Rue de Passy.

Dominica, dragging her feet slowly, like a tired little minstrel, heard this last question and understood its purport in a flash. Macfarland was standing with his back toward the Rue de Passy, and it was when he turned to indicate the desired direction that Legrand would strike.

But Macfarland did not turn. Instead, he drew slightly back as he answered politely:

“This street which you are on will bring you out directly on the Rue de Passy, monsieur. You have only to follow it straight ahead until you strike the tramway.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” replied Legrand, then glanced at Dominica, who, cold and tense, had drawn close. “What do you want, p'tit voyou?” he demanded, in his thick, Provençal tone.

Dominica edged closer to Macfarland.

“Look out!” said she, in English. “He's got a knife!”

The words had not left her lips when Legrand's hand flashed from the side pocket of his coat, and he struck—not downward but straight out—the long blade flat in the palm of his hand with the hilt held by the muscles of the thumb and the fingers stiffly extended. Such a thrust gains a good four inches, and Legrand's would have cloven Macfarland's heart as one opens an orange but for the quickness of Dominica. Although she knew that Legrand understood no English, she had quite counted on his catching the intention of her words and was prepared for war accordingly. So, as he made his stroke, Dominica struck also, directly downward and with her beloved mandola as a weapon. The fundus of this instrument hit Legrand's hand in mid-flight and sent his knife glancing into the turf.

Dominica was a strong girl, as girls go in the Venetian Alps, which is saying a great deal. Before Legrand could recover from the impetus following his thrust, Dominica lashed at him with her mandola, striking him full in the face. He staggered back, clapping both hands to his forehead.

But this was momentary. Blinded, baffled, thwarted, Legrand was still the béte sauvage. He sprang first on Dominica, because she happened to be the nearer, and dealt her a blow on the side of the head which sent her rolling over and over into one of the shallow excavations around the roots of a tree. He knew that he was hitting a woman; and he knew, a second or two later, that he had been hit by a man, for Macfarland had recovered himself sufficiently to jump in and land a blow which might have interfered seriously with Legrand's criminal activities for a number of years to come, had it landed properly.

It did not, however, for Legrand scrambled up and sprang back, jerking a pistol from the pocket of his coat. Before he could level it, Macfarland, an athlete and tennis-player, cut savagely with his stick at the hand which gripped the weapon, the blow falling just above Legrand's wrist. The tough cane broke, but so did a bone in the burglar's forearm. The pistol flew to one side, struck the trunk of the tree at the foot of which Dominica was huddled, and glanced into the gutter. Legrand snarled like a wolf and would have made still another rush but for his numbed hand, which warned him that he might get the worst of a grapple with a tall and active American.

Had Macfarland dropped the jewel-case and clinched with the thief, he could have mastered him in his maimed condition. But he did not choose to risk it, for Legrand was a broad and powerfully built man. So he stood on the defensive, gripping the sharp-pointed fragment of his stick, and Legrand, realizing that capture might easily lead to the guillotine for his previous crimes, abandoned the attempt. Slipping from his overcoat, he turned, darted down the side street, and disappeared.

Macfarland did not pursue him. He stepped to where Dominica was crouched, a pitiful little figure, her head between her hands.

“Are you badly hurt?” he asked anxiously.

She shook her head.

“Then come with me. Hurry! We will get a taxi and go to the nearest police-station and put in an alarm. We may catch the scoundrel, yet. Come, my boy!”

Without answering, Dominica struggled to rise, then sank back again. Her head was swimming from Legrand's blow.

“Stay where you are, then, and try to pull yourself together,” said Macfarland. “I'll get a taxi and come back for you. Wait for me, here—do you understand? You'll not lose anything by this night's work. Wait here, my boy.”

Dominica nodded, without looking up. Macfarland turned on his heel and started down the deserted avenue on a run, the jewel-case gripped tightly under his arm. Before reaching the Rue de la Pompe he came upon a taxi which had just delivered a late fare, and in less than five minutes' time he was back at the spot where he had left Dominica.

Legrand's light overcoat was lying where he had flung it on the edge of the sidewalk, and the side lamp of the taxi glinted on the blade of his knife, not far from the curb. But of the little minstrel and his broken instrument, there was not the slightest sign.

The next Dominica Meduna story will appear in the March issue.