To identify Mrs. Below required but a nodding acquaintance with that lady’s way of life. Her domino eclipsed all others as the moon the stars. It was of cloth of silver, freckled with pips of gold. She was out for blood to-night. To be outstanding in disguise, to beggar all concealment, to blaze—a glowing houri in a shoal of ghosts. . . . Such was her dream. Be sure it was realized. Her progress was one long triumph. As she entered the ball-room her courtiers swarmed about her, pleading the favour of a dance.
Peregrine slid to one side and got his back to the wall. . . .
The spectacle was fantastic, suggesting the practice of mysteries which might be evil. It was the hour of counterfeit. Hooded and cloaked and masked, Secrecy whirled and flitted, finger to lip. Whispers and stifled laughter, red mouths and shining feet, white wrists upon hidden shoulders were mocking Truth. Broad shafts of coloured light, the only luminants, ranged to and fro over the company. Robed as familiars of the Inquisition, a cunning orchestra lent scene and music alike a devilish air.
“Well, Perry, won’t you ask me to dance?”
The man started violently.
“Who are you?” he breathed, taking cool fingers in his and sliding an arm about a yielding waist.
As they slid into the fox-trot—
“I oughtn’t to tell you really, but as we’re such old friends . . . I’m Joan Atlee—that was.”
Peregrine’s heart gave one tremendous bound.
For a moment he said nothing, dancing mechanically and trying to find his voice.