McLagan shrugged.
“Leave it at that,” he said brusquely. “Here, kid,” he went on quickly. “You’re right. You must quit the Speedway. Quit it all. It’s not for you. Don’t you see? Oh, yes! I know. The folks are good to you. Sure they are. They’re mostly men, and you’re a swell girl that sets them crazy to be good to you. But it’s all on the top. There isn’t a thing underneath but the ordinary muck of human nature. You’re going to get it sometime when I’m not around, if you keep on. And there’s sure no need for you to keep on. I——”
“But there is.” Claire’s interruption came sharply, and she held up a warning finger at the threat of storm she again read in the man’s hot eyes. “Here, Ivor. I said plain argument. Listen. I’m making money in bunches. Big bunches. I need the money. And I love the game. But some day I’ll need to quit. I know that. But it won’t be till my luck breaks, or—Max turns. If Max turns first I’ll need to get out quick. No! I’ll never marry Max! I’d sooner marry—Satan. Oh, yes! When that happens I’ll get out quick. I know. I’m wise. You don’t need to be scared for me. But meanwhile I go right on—— Hello! Say—look!”
The girl was pointing down the ballroom. Her eyes had widened. They were sparkling with a queer light.
McLagan was leaning forward. He was following the direction of the pointing finger, peering out half hidden behind the curtain hangings. And as he gazed upon the queer scene that had startled his companion the braying of the band crashed awkwardly into complete silence, and the dancing floor was cleared as if by magic.
Three white-robed figures were making their way in silent procession down the length of the room. They moved slowly, and with monkish dignity, their high-pointed mask hoods, with their goggling eyeholes, creating an atmosphere that hushed the onlookers to dead silence. Behind them the arched entrance was crowded with similar ghostly figures. But the illusion in this direction was largely counteracted by the array of heavy guns held ready for prompt action by hands all sufficiently human.
It was a tense moment. The silence was deathly. Only the sound of the footsteps of the moving figures broke it. The whole company was shocked to impotence. And the eyes of all were preoccupied between the array of arms in the far archway and the progress of the moving trio. The “hold-up” was complete.
The three figures halted before the buttress pillar which centred one of the walls, and on which was fixed the notice-board whereon was pinned the dance programme for the night. They gathered about it, and for some moments their movements clearly told of their purpose. Then they moved away, returning as they had come, without haste and without a word. Again they passed over the polished floor. They reached the archway and their supporters. They passed through the closed ranks. Then, in a moment, the whole of the silent white army had withdrawn as abruptly as it had appeared.
A rush, a scramble followed. Men and women, even the orchestra men, hurried over to the notice-board. The dance programme was lying on the floor below it and its place had been usurped by a large sheet of paper covering the whole extent of the board.
McLagan and Claire had abandoned their box and joined the curious crowd. They were standing on the fringe of it, gazing at the white sheet of paper bearing its written notice in crude, hand-printed lettering. There was no need to get nearer. The text was plain enough and large enough to be read from across the room.