and set about practicing the disguising of his handwriting and the distortion of its features, in preparation for composing the terrible letter whose phrases filled his imagination and gladdened his breast. And while he was exercising himself in the arts of forgery and fraud, suddenly the telephone bell rang; he started, and a shudder ran through him.

It was Albert speaking to him. He informed him that he had found work at one of the companies, and asked him to convey the news to Rose.

This unexpected event doubled Bonnard's fear and made him feel the possibility of failure; so he grew all the more determined and stubborn, and bent over the composition of the letter until he had finished it.

His wife was still at her friend's, and he had an appointment with his daughter for the evening of that same day. He smiled a faint smile, bent over the telephone, spoke to Armand, and invited him to take supper with him; then he arranged his papers, tore up some of them and hid the rest, and rose.

He knew in Armand his great longing for a moment alone with Rose; he knew in him, too, the violence of his passion, the coarseness of his feeling, and the dullness of his conscience. So he felt assured of his plan and set out, his face lit up, a fearful gleam flashing in his eyes.

He hurried outside and sent the letter, by express, addressed to Albert. When he had dropped it into the letter box, he breathed a deep sigh of relief, shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and went straight off to where one of the dancing girls among his friends lived.

There he took to amusing himself and drinking wine, having resolved to avoid returning home before midnight.

The house, in the stillness of evening, was quiet, an awful silence brooding over it. In its far right wing there were only

a few servants preparing the supper. Toward eight o'clock Rose arrived; the head servant received her; she was surprised at her father's absence, and went on into the great hall.

She was deep in her thoughts, contemplating the splendid furni-ture, the sumptuous furnishings, the beautiful pictures, and the rare works of art, when Armand entered, greeted her, and inquired about her father's absence; then he sat down beside her, easy in his movements and his talk, trying to conceal his joy and hide his delight at this opportunity he had so long awaited.

The breeze blew in through the window, soft and gentle, toying with the curtains, refreshing the soul, lulling the nerves, and inviting reverie and dream.

Armand began to speak with politeness and reserve; then his voice inclined toward sorrow; then his tones grew tremulous; and Rose was taken aback and felt a certain unease, and thought it her duty to leave. But the young man tightened the noose about her with his honeyed words and his ardent entreaties, so she submitted reluctantly, reproaching him for his words, seized by astonishment and possessed by bewilderment.

Suddenly she fancied she heard the fall of light footsteps and something like a movement near the door;

she turned around and made to rise. Armand laughed, drew her back by the arm, and listened; but nothing reached his ear, so he returned to his laughter and

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