what?) that I could hardly do my part in hustling him along. Wetter set a hot pace, and Struboff soon began to pant.
"I can't walk. Call a cab!" he gasped.
"Cab? No, no. We can't sit still. Conscience, my dear Struboff! Post equitem—you know. There's nothing like walking for sinners like us. Bring him along, Baron, bring him along!"
"Perhaps M. Struboff doesn't desire our company," I suggested.
"Perhaps!" shouted Wetter, with a laugh that turned a dozen heads toward him. "Oh, my dear Struboff, do you hear this suggestion of our friend the baron's? What a pity you have no breath to repudiate it!"
But now we were escaping from the crowd. Crossing in front of the Opera House, we made for the Rue de la Paix. The pace became smarter still; not only was Struboff breathless with being dragged along, but I was breathless with dragging him. I insisted on a cab. Wetter yielded, planted Struboff and me side by side, and took the little seat facing us himself. Here he sat, smiling maliciously, as the poor impresario mopped his forehead and fetched up deep gasps of breath. Where lay the inspiration of this horseplay of Wetter's?
"Quicker, quicker!" he cried to the driver. "I am impatient, my friends are impatient. Quick, quick! Only God is patient."
"He's mad," grunted Struboff. "He's quite mad. The devil, I'm hot!"
Wetter suddenly assumed an air of great dignity and blandness.
"In offering to present us to madame at an hour possibly somewhat late," he said, "our dear M. Stru-
