In the Quarter | Page 8

shoes.
No, they're all there, unless you originally had more than the normal
number -- in fact I'm afraid -- I think you're all right.
Gethryn stared at him.
"And what the devil am I to do with this sketch?" he continued, kicking
the fallen block. "I've been at it for an hour. It isn't half bad, you know.
I was going to call it `Love in Death.' It was for the London Illustrated
Mirror."
Gethryn lay quite still. He had decided the little fellow was mad.
"Dead in each other's arms!" continued the stranger, sentimentally.
"She so fair -- he so brave -- "
Gethryn sprang up impatiently, but only a little way. Something held
him down and he fell back.
"Do you want to get up?" asked the stranger.
"I should rather think so."
The other bent down and placed his hands under Gethryn's arms, and --
half helped, half by his own impatient efforts -- Rex sat up, leaning
against the other man. A sharp twinge shot through the numbness of his
legs, and his eyes, seeking the cause, fell upon the body of a woman.

She lay across his knees, apparently dead. Rex remembered her now for
the first time.
"Lift her," he said weakly.
The little man with some difficulty succeeded in moving the body; then
Gethryn, putting one arm around the other's neck, struggled up. He was
stiff, and toppled about a little, but before long he was pretty steady on
his feet.
"The woman," he said, "perhaps she is not dead."
"Dead she is," said the Artist of the Mirror cheerfully, gathering up his
pencils, which lay scattered on the steps of the pedestal. He leaned over
the little heap of crumpled clothing.
"Shot, I fancy," he muttered.
Gethryn, feeling his strength returning and the circulation restored to
his limbs, went over to the place where she lay.
"Have you a flask?" he asked. The little Artist eyed him suspiciously.
"Are you a newspaperman?"
"No, an art student."
"Nothing to do with newspapers?"
"No."
"I don't drink," said the queer little person.
"I never said you did," said Gethryn. "Have you a flask, or haven't
you?"
The stranger slowly produced one, and poured a few drops into his pink
palm.

"We may as well try," he said, and began to chafe her forehead. "Here,
take the whiskey -- let it trickle, so, between her teeth. Don't spill any
more than you can help," he added.
"Has she been shot?" asked Gethryn.
"Crushed, maybe."
"Poor little thing, look at her roll of music!" said Gethryn, wiping a few
drops of blood from her pallid face, and glancing compassionately at
the helpless, dust-covered figure.
"I'm afraid it's no use -- "
"Give her some more whiskey, quick!" interrupted the stranger.
Gethryn tremblingly poured a few more drops between the parted lips.
A faint color came into her temples. She moved, shivered from head to
foot, and then, with a half-choked sob, opened her eyes.
"Mon Dieu, comme je souffre!"
"Where do you suffer?" said Gethryn gently.
"The arm; I think it is broken."
Gethryn stood up and looked about for help. The Place was nearly
deserted. The blue-jacketed hussars were still standing over by the
Avenue, and an occasional heavy, red-faced cuirassier walked his
sweating horse slowly up and down the square. A few policemen
lounged against the river wall, chatting with the sentries, and far down
the dusty Rue Royale, the cannon winked and blinked before the
Church of the Madeleine.
The rumble of wheels caused him to turn. A clumsy, blue-covered
wagon drew up at the second fountain. It was a military ambulance. A
red-capped trooper sprang down jingling from one of the horses, and
was joined by two others who had followed the ambulance and who
also dismounted. Then the three approached a group of policemen who

were lifting something from the pavement. At the same moment he
heard voices beside him, and turning, found that the girl had risen and
was sitting on the campstool, her head leaning against the little
stranger's shoulder.
An officer stood looking down at her. His boots were spotless. The
band of purple on his red and gold cap showed that he was a surgeon.
"Can we be of any assistance to madame?" he inquired.
"I was looking for a cab," said Gethryn, "but perhaps she is not strong
enough to be taken to her home."
A frightened look came into the girl's face and she glanced anxiously at
the ambulance. The surgeon knelt quietly beside her.
"Madame is not seriously hurt," he said, after a rapid examination. "The
right arm is a little strained, but it will be nothing, I assure you,
Madame; a matter of a few days, that is all."
He rose and stood brushing the