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my pearls before swine—I will not! I am buried alive—alive, and—ah, forgive me!"

He turned aside to hide tears of real emotion. With an effort he recovered his self-control. "As you see me," he said, "I—I—was sous-chef at the Tour d' Argent. I was the pupil of Frédérique."

"Then I was not mistaken," I exclaimed, quite as pleased with my own powers of gastronomic discrimination as was he to tell me of his high tutelage. "I should know that savor had I met it in the moon. But how—how come you here—lost, buried in Agua Caliente—in this miserable posada, among half-breeds, Spaniards, and sullen Indians?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "That is my story—a sad story enough, and a sad example of a great sin. Pride—pride brought me here. Pride keeps me prisoner—tenez! I will tell you. You have revived me with your praise, encouraged a poor artist who felt the world slipping from under his feet. Ah, I feared this environment had made of me what they have made of the 'Marseillaise' I taught them that I might ease my homesickness. Listen to it! It breaks my heart. But you have told me my art is not lost. Heaven bless you!"

A sob caught his utterance, and he paused, just as the music ceased and the entire company, with a surprising coincidence of movement, turned toward the adjoining room and the bar.

"Ten years ago," he went on, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, "if any one had told me I should be—this—what I am, I should have laughed, I should have