"Stop; let them come in; we are going," said the mild voice of Owen.
The understanding look of Baskinelli met his. Baskinelli frowned and
Owen smiled. They were playing perfectly their roles.
The two Chinamen shuffled into the room. The priest arose in jabbering protest. They argued with him acridly. A few feet away one could see that their cheap linen robes covered the ordinary street garb of the Chinamen; that the ugly lines on their faces were painted, as on the face of the Joss.
Baskinelli was laughing. The others watched the argument in silence. Every one but the host, and Owen, and Pauline, seemed a little nervous.
Suddenly the lamp on the floor went out. There was another at the farther side of the room, but its dim light made the scene more weird than darkness could have made it.
"Well, I thought we were going," snapped Harry's strident voice.
"We are," replied Baskinelli. "Miss—er—I am afraid to speak—
Miss Marvin, shall we go?"
Pauline took his arm.
"Ali, but I have forgotten the most precious sight of the evening," suddenly exclaimed the musician. "Only a moment—look here."
Interested, Pauline did not notice that Owen softly shut the door upon the receding footsteps of the others. Baskinelli guided her back to the little door behind the screen—the door from which the Chinamen had entered.