M. Max entered the cab.
"To Frascati's," he directed.
The cabman backed out into Greek Street and drove off. This was the
hour when the theaters were beginning to eject their throngs, and
outside one of them, where a popular comedy had celebrated its
three-hundred-and-fiftieth performance, the press of cabs and private
cars was so great that M. Max found himself delayed within sight of the
theater foyer.
Those patrons of the comedy who had omitted to order vehicles or who did
not possess private conveyances, found themselves in a quandary tonight,
and amongst those thus unfortunately situated, M. Max, watching the
scene with interest, detected a lady whom he knew--none other than the
delightful American whose conversation had enlivened his recent journey
from Paris--Miss Denise Ryland. She was accompanied by a charming
companion, who, although she was wrapped up in a warm theater cloak,
seemed to be shivering disconsolately as she and her friend watched
the interminable stream of vehicles filing up before the theater, and
cutting them off from any chance of obtaining a cab for themselves.
M. Max acted promptly.
"Drive into that side turning!" he directed the cabman, leaning out of
the window. The cabman followed his directions, and M.
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