The Judgment House | Page 5

the other:
"They live hard lives in those new lands. He has wasted much of
himself."
"Three millions at thirty-three means spending a deal of one thing to
get another," Ian answered a little grimly.
"Hush! Oh, Ian, listen!" she added in a whisper.
Once more Al'mah rose to mastery over the audience. The bold and
generous orchestration, the exceptional chorus, the fine and brilliant
tenor, had made a broad path for her last and supreme effort. The
audience had long since given up their critical sense, they were ready to
be carried into captivity again, and the surrender was instant and
complete. Now, not an eye was turned away from the singer. Even the
Corinthian gallant at the end of the first row of stalls gave himself up to
feasting on her and her success, and the characters in the opera were as
electrified as the audience.
For a whole seven minutes this voice seemed to be the only thing in the
world, transposing all thoughts, emotions, all elements of life into
terms of melody. Then, at last, with a crash of sweetness, the voice
broke over them all in crystals of sound and floated away into a world
of bright dreams.
An instant's silence which followed was broken by a tempest of
applause. Again, again, and again it was renewed. The subordinate
singers were quickly disposed of before the curtain, then Al'mah
received her memorable tribute. How many times she came and went
she never knew; but at last the curtain, rising, showed her well up the
stage beside a table where two huge candles flared. The storm of
applause breaking forth once more, the grateful singer raised her arms
and spread them out impulsively in gratitude and dramatic abandon.

As she did so, the loose, flowing sleeve of her robe caught the flame of
a candle, and in an instant she was in a cloud of fire. The wild applause
turned suddenly to notes of terror as, with a sharp cry, she stumbled
forward to the middle of the stage.
For one stark moment no one stirred, then suddenly a man with an
opera-cloak on his arm was seen to spring across a space of many feet
between a box on the level of the stage and the stage itself. He crashed
into the footlights, but recovered himself and ran forward. In an instant
he had enveloped the agonized figure of the singer and had crushed out
the flames with swift, strong movements.
Then lifting the now unconscious artist in his great arms, he strode off
with her behind the scenes.
"Well done, Byng! Well done, Ruddy Byng!" cried a strong voice from
the audience; and a cheer went up.
In a moment Byng returned and came down the stage. "She is not
seriously hurt," he said simply to the audience. "We were just in time."
Presently, as he entered the Grenfel box again, deafening applause
broke forth.
"We were just in time," said Ian Stafford, with an admiring, teasing
laugh, as he gripped Byng's arm.
"'We'--well, it was a royal business," said Jasmine, standing close to
him and looking up into his eyes with that ingratiating softness which
had deluded many another man; "but do you realize that it was my
cloak you took?" she added, whimsically.
"Well, I'm glad it was," Byng answered, boyishly. "You'll have to wear
my overcoat home."
"I certainly will," she answered. "Come--the giant's robe."
People were crowding upon their box.

"Let's get out of this," Byng said, as he took his coat from the hook on
the wall.
As they left the box the girl's white-haired, prematurely aged father
whispered in the pretty stepmother's ear: "Jasmine'll marry that
nabob--you'll see."
The stepmother shrugged a shoulder. "Jasmine is in love with Ian
Stafford," she said, decisively.
"But she'll marry Rudyard Byng," was the stubborn reply.

CHAPTER II
THE UNDERGROUND WORLD
"What's that you say--Jameson--what?"
Rudyard Byng paused with the lighted match at the end of his cigar,
and stared at a man who was reading from a tape-machine, which gave
the club the world's news from minute to minute.
"Dr. Jameson's riding on Johannesburg with eight hundred men. He
started from Pitsani two days ago. And Cronje with his burghers are out
after him."
The flaming match burned Byng's fingers. He threw it into the fireplace,
and stood transfixed for a moment, his face hot with feeling, then he
burst out:
"But--God! they're not ready at Johannesburg. The burghers'll catch
him at Doornkop or somewhere, and--" He paused, overcome. His eyes
suffused. His hands went out in a gesture of despair.
"Jameson's jumped too soon," he muttered. "He's lost the game for
them."

The other eyed him quizzically. "Perhaps he'll get in yet. He surely
planned the thing with due regard for every