The music of an old-style dance was being played. Now the piping cowboy voice of some range cavalier rose, calling the figures. The two in the garden path turned with one accord and faced away from the bright windows again.
“They’ll be unmasking at midnight?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I can’t go in again, then. The hour of my enchantment is nearly at its end.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” she chided, yet not in severity, rather in subdued admiration for his reckless bravery. “Suppose they—”
“Mac! O Mac!” called a cautious, low voice from a hydrangea bush close at hand.
“Who’s there?” demanded Macdonald, springing forward.
“They’re onto you, Mac,” answered the voice from the shrub, “they’re goin’ to do you hurt. They’re lookin’ for you now!”
There was a little rustling in the leaves as the unseen friend moved away. The voice was the voice of Banjo Gibson, but not even the shadow of the messenger had been seen.