“I think I shall try to see Kennedy,” concluded Burke.
“All right,” I agreed as he turned away. “You’ll find him at the Lodge on the porch. I am going to stay here awhile and see what Paquita does. How about Sanchez?” I recollected.
“Nothing at all,” imparted Burke as he left me. “Since dinner he seems to have dropped out of sight entirely.”
Burke having left me, I sauntered into the light, and, being alone, chose a table from which I could see both the dancers and the gay parties at the other little round tables.
Intently my gaze wandered in toward the dancing. The lively strains of a fox-trot were sending the crowded couples ricocheting over the polished floor. It was a brilliant sight—the myriad lights, the swaying couples, the musical rhythm pervading all.
Sure enough, there was Paquita. I could pick her out from among them all, for there was none, even among these seasoned dancers, who could equal the pretty professional.
Dancing with her was a young man whom I did not recognize. Nor did it seem to matter, for even in the encore I found that she had another partner. Without a doubt they were of the group of the younger set to whom Paquita was a fascinating creature. What, if anything, her partners might have to do with the Maddox mystery I was unable to determine, though I inclined to the belief that it was nothing. Sophisticated though they may have thought themselves, they were mere children in the hands of Paquita. She was quite apparently using her very popularity as a mask.
From my table on the terrace over the bay I caught sight of a face, all alone, which amazed me. Johnson Walcott was quite as much interested in Paquita as any of the younger set.
It was too late for me to move. Walcott caught sight of me and soon had planted himself in the chair opposite.
“What do you make of that girl?” he asked, finally, as though frankly confessing the object of his visit to the Casino.