"We'll take Mart's junk," said Timmy. "It'll hold the five of us with ease."
"Mine is in New Jersey—we could follow," said Maynard.
"Now I know we'll take mine," said Martin. "It's on the roof. We'll waste no time dragging all the way to New Jersey."
Maynard settled up with the waiter, and within five minutes found himself seated in the rear seat with Martin Ingalls, and Laura Greggor between them. The run to Havana was made during a running fire of light conversation. And from there on, the night became lost to Guy Maynard.
He followed. He did not lead, not for one minute. They led him from place to place, and he watched them hazard large sums of money on the turn of a pair of dice. He joined them, gingerly, hiding his qualms, and played cautiously. He won, at first, and permitted himself to enjoy the play as long as he was playing with the other party's money. Then he lost, and tried to buck up his loss with shrewdness. But skill and shrewdness never prevail against an honest pair of dice, and these were strictly honest. So Maynard played doggedly, and his financial status remained the same. He was a couple of hundred solars behind the game.
He missed the others, and went to look for them and found them dancing. He stood on the side line for a few minutes, until Laura spied him. She broke from Martin's arms and came to him, leading him on to the floor for the rest of the dancing.
The excitement had done its work on Laura. Her eyes were bright, and her hair was ever-so-slightly mussed, which removed the showcase perfection and made her, to Maynard, a glamorous and wonderful thing. His arm tightened about her waist, and she responded gently.
"Like this?" he asked her quietly.
Her head nodded against his cheek. Maynard took a deep breath. "You're lovely," he said.
Laura caressed his cheek with her forehead. "It's been a wonderful evening," she said. "But I'm getting tired. Let's go home?"