The white-faced figure ceased dancing. The wind in the trees sang on. The figure, appearing to see the dragon, drew back in trembling fright.
He approached the fiery curtain, yet his back was ever toward it. There was yet a space between the two sections of the curtain. The figure, darting toward this gap, was caught in the flames.
“Oh!” Jeanne breathed. “He will die in flames!”
Marjory Dean pressed her hand hard.
Of a sudden the floor beneath the white figure opened and swallowed him up.
Jeanne looked for the dragon. It was gone. The fiery red of the curtain was turning to an orange glow.
“Come. You have seen.” It was Hop Long Lee who spoke. Once again his marble-cold hand touched Jeanne’s hand.
Ten minutes later the four figures were once more in the street.
“Midnight in an Oriental garden,” Angelo breathed.
“That,” breathed Marjory Dean, “is drama, Oriental drama. Give it a human touch and it could be made supreme.”