Stolen Idols. E. Phillips Oppenheim

go on,” he answered quickly.

      The music seemed to have gained a new and more passionate throb. The starlit night seemed to be leaning down, to close them in. There was a breath of magic in the languid air, in the perfume from her hair and clothes, swimming out into the stillness. Her eyes for a moment had half closed in faint response to the joy of it all. His arm suddenly tightened around her—tightened!

      “Stop!” she ordered quickly.

      He obeyed at once. She looked at him with an expression of amazement, in which was almost a gleam of terror. Then she turned away.

      “I’m tired,” she said. “I want to speak to Mrs. Hichens. Please don’t come.”

      He knew better than to follow her, to protest, to attempt any explanation. He made his way to the smoking room and drank two whiskies and sodas. The steward looked at him curiously.

      “Hot work dancing to-night, sir,” he observed.

      “Hot as hell,” Gregory answered. “Give me another drink.”

      He was served immediately. Afterwards he stepped back on to the deck. Claire had disappeared. He went up to a woman whom he had previously avoided with sedulous care—a grass widow, good-looking still in a way, but overanxious, overobvious, overperfumed. She rose to her feet with astonishing alacrity at his unexpected invitation. A moment later they danced off into the darkness.

      The smoking-room steward took Gregory to his stateroom that night, and the faithful Perkins, summoned from his own repose, undressed him. He went to sleep with a chuckle upon his distorted lips.

      “I’m with you, old fellow,” he muttered, waving his hand feebly to his unseen companion. “You’re the chap for us Ballastons. Glad I got you—and not the other.”