a long scarlet cloak which she had been wearing over her owndress. She was young, fair, rather tall, slim, and very pretty; herhair was drawn back from her face with a ribbon, and rippled down hershoulders in heavy curls; and she was dressed in a satin coat andknee-breeches of pale green and gold, with a white waistcoat andsilk stockings and scarlet heels to her satin shoes. She was asstraight-limbed as a boy, and exquisite like a figure in Dresdenchina. I caught the cloak and turned to thank her. But she did notwait. With a laugh she ran down the stairs a supple and shiningfigure, and was lost in the throng at the doorway of the ballroom. Iwas stirred by the prospect of an adventure. I ran down after her. Shewas standing just inside the room alone, and she was gazing at thescene with parted lips and dancing eyes. She laughed again as she sawthe cloak about my shoulders, a delicious gurgle of amusement, and Isaid to her:
"'May I dance with you?'
"'Oh, do!' she cried, with a little jump, and clasping her hands. Shewas of a high and joyous spirit and not difficult in the matter of anintroduction. 'This gentleman will do very well to present us,' shesaid, leading me in front of a bust of the God Pan which stood in aniche of the wall. 'I am, as you see, straight out of an opera. Myname is Celymene or anything with an eighteenth century sound to it.You are--what you will. For this evening we are friends.'
"'And for to-morrow?' I asked.
"'I will tell you about that later on,' she replied, and she began todance with a light step and a passion in her dancing which earned memany an envious glance from the other men. I was in luck, for Celymeneknew no one, and though, of course, I saw the faces of a great manypeople whom I remembered, I kept them all at a distance. We had beendancing for about half an hour when the first queerish thing happened.She stopped suddenly in the midst of a sentence with a little gasp. Ispoke to her, but she did not hear. She was gazing past me, her eyeswide open, and such a rapt look upon her face as I had never seen. Shewas lost in a miraculous vision. I followed the direction of her eyesand, to my astonishment, I saw nothing more than a stout, short,middle-aged woman, egregiously over-dressed as Marie Antoinette.
"'So you do know someone here?' I said, and I had to repeat the wordssharply before my friend withdrew her eyes. But even then she was notaware of me. It was as if a voice had spoken to her whilst she wasasleep and had disturbed, but not wakened her. Then she cameto--there's really no other word I can think of which describes her atthat moment--she came to with a deep sigh.
"'No,' she answered. 'She is a Mrs. Blumenstein from Chicago, a widowwith ambitions and a great deal of money. But I don't know her.'
"'Yet you know all about her,' I remarked.
"'She crossed in the same boat with me,' Celymene replied. 'Did I tellyou that I landed at Liverpool this morning? She is staying at theSemiramis too. Oh, let us dance!'
"She twitched my sleeve impatiently, and danced with a kind ofviolence and wildness as if she wished to banish some sinisterthought. And she did undoubtedly banish it. We supped together andgrew confidential, as under such conditions people will. She told meher real name. It was Joan Carew.
"'I have come over to get an engagement if I can at Covent Garden. Iam supposed to sing all right. But I don't know anyone. I have beenbrought up in Italy.'
"'You have some letters of introduction, I suppose?' I asked.
"'Oh, yes. One from my teacher in Milan. One from an Americanmanager.'
"In my turn I told her my name and where I lived, and I gave her mycard. I thought, you see, that since I used to know a good manyoperatic people, I might be able to help her.
"'Thank you,' she said, and at that moment Mrs. Blumenstein, followedby a party, chiefly those lap-dog young men who always seem to gatherabout that kind of person, came into the supper-room and took a tableclose to us. There was at once an end of all confidences--indeed, ofall conversation. Joan Carew lost all the lightness of her spirit; shetalked at random, and her eyes were drawn again and again to thegrotesque slander on Marie Antoinette. Finally I became annoyed.
"'Shall we go?' I suggested impatiently, and to my surprise shewhispered passionately:
"'Yes. Please! Let us go.'
"Her voice was actually shaking, her small hands clenched. We wentback to the ballroom, but Joan Carew did not recover her gaiety, andhalf-way through a dance, when we were near to the door, she stoppedabruptly--extraordinarily abruptly.
"'I shall go,' she said abruptly. 'I am tired. I have grown dull.'
"I protested, but she made a little grimace.
"'You'll hate me in half an hour. Let's be wise and stop now while weare friends,' she said, and whilst I removed the domino from myshoulders she stooped very quickly. It seemed to me that she picked upsomething which had lain hidden beneath the sole of her slipper. Shecertainly moved her foot, and I certainly saw something small andbright flash in the palm of her glove as she raised herself again. ButI imagined merely that it was some object which she had dropped.
"'Yes, we'll go,' she said, and we went up the stairs into the lobby.Certainly all the sparkle had gone out of our adventure. I recognizedher wisdom.
"'But I shall meet you again?' I asked.
"'Yes. I have your address. I'll write and fix a time when you will besure to find me in. Good-night, and a thousand thanks. I should havebeen bored to tears if you hadn't come without a domino.'
"She was speaking lightly as she held out her hand, but her griptightened a little and--clung. Her eyes darkened and grew troubled,her mouth trembled. The shadow of a great trouble had suddenly closedabout her. She shivered.
"'I am half inclined to ask you to stay, however dull I am; and dancewith me till daylight--the safe daylight,' she said.
"It was an extraordinary phrase for her to use, and it moved me.
"'Let us go back then!' I urged. She gave me an impression suddenly ofsomeone quite forlorn. But Joan Carew recovered her courage. 'No, no,'she answered quickly. She snatched her hand away and ran lightly upthe staircase, turning at the corner to wave her hand and smile. Itwas then half-past one in the morning."
So far Calladine had spoken without an interruption. Mr. Ricardo, itis true, was bursting to break in with the most important questions,but a salutary fear of Hanaud restrained him. Now, however, he had anopportunity, for Calladine paused.
"Half-past one," he said sagely. "Ah!"
"And when did you go home?" Hanaud asked of Calladine.
"True," said Mr. Ricardo. "It is of the greatest consequence."
Calladine was not sure. His partner had left behind her the strangestmedley of sensations in his breast. He was puzzled, haunted, andcharmed. He had to think about her; he was a trifle uplifted; sleepwas impossible. He wandered for a while about the ballroom. Then hewalked to his chambers along the echoing streets and sat at hiswindow; and some time afterwards the hoot of a motor-horn broke thesilence and a car stopped and whirred in the street below. A momentlater his bell rang.
He ran down the stairs in a queer excitement, unlocked the street doorand opened it. Joan Carew, still in her masquerade dress with herscarlet cloak about her shoulders, slipped through the opening.
"Shut the door," she whispered, drawing herself apart in a corner.
"Your cab?" asked Calladine.
"It has gone."
Calladine latched the door. Above, in the well of the stairs, thelight spread out from the open door of his flat. Down here all wasdark. He could just see the glimmer of her white face, the glitter ofher dress, but she drew her breath like one who has run far. Theymounted the stairs cautiously. He did not say a word until they wereboth safely in his parlour; and even then it was in a low voice.
"What has happened?"
"You remember the woman I stared at? You didn't know why I stared, butany girl would have understood. She was wearing the loveliest pearls Iever saw in my life."
Joan was standing by the edge of the table. She was tracing with herfinger a pattern on the cloth as she spoke. Calladine started with ahorrible presentiment.
"Yes," she said
. "I worship pearls. I always have done. For one thing,they improve on me. I haven't got any, of course. I have no money. Butfriends of mine who do own pearls have sometimes given theirs to me towear when they were going sick, and they have always got back theirlustre. I think that has had a little to do with my love of them. Oh,I have always longed for them--just a little string. Sometimes I havefelt that I would have given my soul for them."
She was speaking in a dull, monotonous voice. But Calladine recalledthe ecstasy which had shone in her face when her eyes first had fallenon the pearls, the longing which had swept her quite into