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This story was written from the Photoplay of GEORGE CAMERON
The slow-drawn moan of a 'cello and the robin-notes of a flute marked the tempo of a dance in the Belgradin mansion. Above their somnolent measure, like wraiths of blown fog, the lilting strokes of a violin, in the hands of a maestro, scrolled out a message to pulsating hearts and feet.
Agnes stood with her mother in a fern-bowered alcove of the receptionroom. It was not past midnight, but her pallor and tired eyes were in sharp contrast to the flushed faces that beamed into hers — beautiful faces that, as the early morning came, dropped their rosy masks and paled to the color of milk in the rumbling wagons outside.
The affair was another triumph — so each guest whispered, with unvarying monotony, to the youthful hostess, and in her heart she felt that Agnes was safely launched on the seas of social success. It had cost a cool two thousand — the lights, the flowers, the prodigality of dainty dishes; the services of Harko, the gypsy violinist— and the returns were already evident. The late-coming, gilded youths from cabaret and opera flitted about Agnes, or folded her in the
arms of the tango or matiche. To the enchanting measures the pale girl fled down the rooms like the Spirit of the Storm. There was a lack of abandon, a graceful aloofness about her dancing that provoked and charmed. And with the dawn of a new day, a shell-pink color crept to her cheeks.
In Mr. Belgradin 's library the blinds were, drawn. A single desklight burned its worn filament, that trembled in the touch of gliding slippers below. The safe lay open, and the contents of the documentdrawers were heaped on the desk before the solitary tenant.
Once during the night Agnes, pale, clear-eyed, had appeared before him, and he had hastily shoved back the interminable papers, to light a fresh cigar. After that, the man with the haunted eyes and fleeting smile took to the ceaseless juggling of his records again. And with the break of day, an elfin light worked under the drawn shade to straighten out the head bowed over its desk.
With a heart-tearing sigh, Mr. Belgradin summoned back his fleeting senses and again bent to his task. The pile of unpaid bills, the heap of dunning letters, the dwindling assets