Suddenly, as Freddy Mordaunt paused, Peggy stopped and lowered her arms.
"Good Lord!" she gasped. "What's the matter with Pop?"
McGuire had risen unsteadily and was peering out into the darkness through the window opposite him, his face pallid, his lips drawn into a thin line. Peggy ran to him and caught him by the arm.
"What is it, Pop? Are you sick?"
"N-no matter. Just a bit upset. If you don't mind, daughter, I think I'll be going up."
"Can I do anything?"
"No. Stay here and enjoy yourselves. Just tell Stryker, will you, Nichols, and then come up to my room."
Peggy was regarding him anxiously as he made his way to the door and intercepted Peter as he went to look for the valet.
"What is it, Mr. Nichols?" she asked. "He may be sick, but it seems to me——" she paused, and then, "Did you see his eyes as he looked out of the window?"
"Indigestion," said Peter coolly.