She turned to me. "There is yet time."
"Time for what?"
"Time to run."
"There was a moment.... Lead on,"—quietly. I thought of the young man with the cream tarts.
She touched a bell, and the door opened, admitting us into the hall. A servant took our belongings.
"Dinner is served, miss," said the servant, eying me curiously, even suspiciously.
It appeared that I was to dine! What the deuce did it all mean? A dinner at suppertime! A very distressing thought flashed through my mind. Supposing she had known me all along, and had lured me here to witness some amateur performance. I shuddered. I flattered myself. There was no amateur performance, as presently you shall see. I followed her into the dining-room. Fortunately, I was in evening dress. I should at least be presentable, and as cool as any man in the room. Comedy or tragedy, or whatever it was going to be, I determined to show that I had good blood in me, even though I had been played for a fool.
Around a table covered with exquisite linen, silver and glass sat a party of elegantly dressed men and women. At the sight of us the guests rose confusedly and made toward us with shouts of laughter, inquiry and admiration. They gathered round my companion and plied her with a hundred questions, occasionally stealing a glance at me. I saw at once that I stood among a party of ultra-smart people. Somehow I felt that I represented a part in their mad pastimes.
"Where did you find him?" cried one.
"Was it difficult?" asked another.