A BUTTERFLY ON THE WHEEL

A Novel

By C. RANGER GULL

Author of "A Woman in the Case," etc.

Founded on the successful play by E. G. Hemmerde, K. C.,
M. P., and Francis Neilson, M. P.

WITH PHOTOGRAPHS FROM THE PLAY

NEW YORK

WILLIAM RICKEY & COMPANY

1912

Copyrighted 1912, by
WILLIAM RICKEY & COMPANY

PRESS OF WILLIAM G. HEWITT, 61-67 NAVY ST., BROOKLYN, N. Y.

"Forgive me, George," she sobbed, "forgive me."

ORIGINAL PROGRAM OF A BUTTERFLY ON THE WHEEL

Produced at the 39th Street Theatre, beginning Tuesday Evening, January 9th, 1912

MR. LEWIS WALLER
Has the Honor to Submit
A Butterfly on the Wheel
By Edward G. Hemmerde, K. C., and Francis Neilson, M. P.
Produced under the personal supervision of Lewis Waller

CONTENTS

PREFACE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
THE LAST CHAPTER

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"Forgive me, George," she sobbed, "forgive me"

"We all got on the wrong train and we all stayed the night at this hotel"

"Don't you see, man, if you call in the court to break her wings, you'll only drive her to me!"

"He caught her in his arms—in his strong arms"

PREFACE

Of all the English plays that have come to this country none has created more of a sensation than "A Butterfly on the Wheel," and without question will be received the same by the public over the entire country as it has been received in New York. The play opened at the Thirty-ninth Street Theatre on Tuesday evening, January 9th, and has played to "standing room only" at every performance since.

The story in book form has been done by C. Ranger Gull (pen name), a writer who has already gained a big reputation as an author both in America and England, and the success of "A Butterfly on the Wheel" goes without saying.

THE PUBLISHER.

A BUTTERFLY ON THE WHEEL

CHAPTER I

It was shortly after midnight in the great Hôtel des Tuileries at Paris.

Beyond the façade of the hotel the gardens of the Tuileries were sleeping in the warm night. To the left the Louvre etched itself in solid black against the sky, and all up and down the Rue de Rivoli carriages and automobiles were still moving.

But in the great thoroughfare the tide of vehicles and foot passengers was perceptibly thinning. Paris is a midnight city, it is true, and at this hour the heights of Montmartre were thronged with pleasure-seekers, dancing and supping till the pale dawn should come with its message of purity and reproach.

But down in the Rue de Rivoli even the great hotels were beginning to prepare for sleep.

One enters the Hôtel des Tuileries, as every one knows, through the revolving doors, passes into the entresol, and then into the huge glass-domed lounge with its comfortable fauteuils, its big settee, its little tables covered with beaten copper, and its great palms, which seem as if they had been cunningly enamelled jade-green by some jeweller.

The lounge was now almost empty of people, though the shaded electric light threw a topaz-coloured radiance over everything.

In one corner—just where the big marble stair-case springs upwards to the gilded gallery—two men in evening dress were sitting together.

They were obviously English, tall, thin, bronzed men, as obviously in the service. As a matter of fact, one was Colonel Adams, attached to the Viceroy's