Through the loud hum of voices that, filling the room, had furnished a cover for their conversation, sounded the opening bars of music for the final dance.
The girl rose suddenly, eyes like stars aflame in a face of snow.
"He will be coming for me now," she said hurriedly. "But—if you mean what you say—I must know—instantly—why you say it. How can we manage to avoid him?"
"This way," said P. Sybarite, indicating the wide window nearby.
Through its draped opening a shallow balcony showed, half-screened by palms whose softly stirring fronds, touched with artificial light, shone a garish green against the sombre sky of night.
Immediately Marian Blessington slipped through the hangings and, turning, beckoned P. Sybarite to follow.
"There's no one here," she announced in accents tremulous with excitement, when he joined her. "Now—now tell me what you mean!"
"One moment," he warned her gently, turning back to the window just as it was darkened by another figure.
The man with the twisted mouth stood there, peering blindly into the semi-obscurity.
"Marian...?" he called in a voice meant to be ingratiating.