The Second Class Passenger: Fifteen Stories. Gibbon Perceval

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      At length a creaking wooden stair that hung precariously on the sheer side of a house brought them again to the ground level. It was another gloomy alley into which they descended, and the darkness about him and the mud underfoot struck Dawson with a sense of being again in familiar surroundings. The woman's hand slid into his as he stood, and they started along again together.

      The alley seemed to be better frequented than that of which he already had experience. More than once dark, sheeted figures passed them by, noiseless save for the underfoot swish in the mud, and presently the alley widened into a little square, at one side of which there was a fresh rustle of green things. At the side of it a dim light showed through a big open door, from which came a musical murmur of voices, and Dawson recognized a church.

      "The Little Garden of St. Sebastien," murmured the woman, and led him on to cross the square. A figure that had been hidden in the shadow now lounged forth; and revealed itself to them as a man in uniform. He stood across their way, and accosted the woman briefly in Portuguese.

      Dawson stood fidgeting while she spoke with him. He seemed to be repeating a brief phrase over and over again, harshly and irritably; but she was cajoling, remonstrating, arguing, as he had seen her argue in that ill-fated room an hour back.

      "What's the matter with him?" demanded Dawson impatiently.

      "He says he won't let me go," answered the woman, with a tone of despair in her voice.

      "The devil he won't! What's he got to do with it?"

      "Oh, these little policemen, they always arrest me when they can," she replied, with a smile.

      "Here, you!" cried Dawson, addressing himself to the man in uniform—"you go away. Voetsaak, see! You mind your own business, and get out."

      The officer drawled something in his own tongue, which was, of course, unintelligible to Dawson, but it had the effect of annoying him strangely.

      "You little beast!" he said, and knocked the man down with his fist.

      "Run," hissed the woman at his elbow—"run before he can get up. No, not that way. To the church and out by another way!"

      She caught his hand, and together they raced across the square and in through the big door.

      There were a few people within, most sleeping on the benches and along the floor by the walls. In the chancel there were others, masked by the lights, busy with some offices. A wave of sudden song issued from among them as Dawson and the woman entered, and gave way again to the high, nervous voice of a map that stood before the altar. All along the sides of the church was shadow, and the woman speedily found a little arched door.

      "Come through the middle of it," she whispered urgently to Dawson, as she packed her loose skirts together in her hand—"cleanly through the middle; do not rub the wall as you come."

      He obeyed and followed her, and they were once more in the darkness of an alley.

      "It was the door of the lepers," she explained, as she let her skirts swish down again. "See, there is the light by the sea!"

      The wind came cleanly up the alley, and soon they were at its mouth, where a lamp flickered in the breeze. Dawson drew a deep breath, and tucked the image under his arm. His palm was sore with the roughness of its head.

      "Some one is passing," said the woman in a low tone. "Wait here till they are by."

      Footsteps were approaching along the front, and very soon Dawson heard words and started.

      "What is it!" whispered the woman, her breath on his neck.

      "Listen!" he answered curtly.

      The others came within the circle of the lamp—a girl and two men.

      "I do hope he's found my idol," the girl was saying.

      Dawson stepped into the light, and they turned and saw him.

      "Why, here he is," exclaimed Miss Paterson shrilly.

      He raised his hat to the woman who stood at the entrance to the alley—raised it as he would have raised it to a waitress in a bun- shop, and went over to the people from the second-class saloon.

      "I found it," he said, lifting the image forward, and brushing with his hand at the foulness of blood and hair upon it. "But I was almost thinking I should miss the boat."

II

       Table of Contents

      THE SENSE OF CLIMAX

      It was in the fall of the year that Truda Schottelius on tour came to that shabby city of Southern Russia. Nowadays, the world remembers little of her besides her end, which stirred it as Truda Schottelius could always stir her audience; but in those days hers was a fame that had currency from Paris to Belgrade, and the art of drama was held her debtor.

      It was soon after dawn that she looked from her window in the train, weary with twelve hours of traveling, and saw the city set against the pale sky, unreal and remote like a scene in a theatre, while about it the flat land stretched vacant and featureless. The light was behind it, and it stood out in silhouette like a forced effect, and Truda, remarking it, frowned, for of late she found herself impatient of forced effects. She was a pale, slender, brown-haired woman, with a small clear, pliant face, and some manner of languor in all her attitudes that lent them a slow grace of their own and did not at all impair the startling energy she could command for her work. While she looked out at the city there came a tap at the door of her compartment, and her maid entered with tea. Behind her, a little drawn in that early hour, came Truda's manager, Monsieur Vaucher.

      "Madame finds herself well?" he asked solicitously, but shivering somewhat. "Madame is in the mood for further triumphs?"

      Truda gave him a smile. Monsieur Vaucher was a careful engineer of her successes, a withered little middle-aged Parisian, who had grown up in the mechanical service of great singers and actors. There was not a tone in his voice, not a gesture in his repertory, that was not an affectation; and, with it all, she knew him for a man of sterling loyalty and a certain simplicity of heart.

      "We are on the point of arriving," went on Monsieur Vaucher. "I come to tell Madame how the ground lies in this city. It is, you see, a place vexed with various politics, an arena of trivialities. In other words, Madame, the best place in the world for one who is—shall we say?—detached."

      Truda laughed, sipping her warm tea.

      "Politics have never tempted me, my friend," she replied.

      Monsieur Vaucher bowed complaisantly.

      "Your discretion is frequently perfect," he said. "And if I suggest that here is an occasion for a particular discretion, it is only because I have Madame's interests at heart. Now, the chief matters of dispute here are——"

      Truda interrupted him. "Please!" she said. "It does not matter at all. And think! Politics before breakfast. I am surprised at you, Monsieur Vaucher."

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