hat Barndale regarded him with amazement. Demetri Agryopoulo, salaried
hanger-on to the Persian embassy, was glaring like a roused wild beast
at these two shadowy figures in the shadow of the orchestra. The band
was crashing away at the overture to 'Tannhaeuser,' the people were
laughing and chattering as they circled, and not an eye but Barndale's
regarded this drama in the corner. The Greek's hand was in his bosom,
where it clutched something with an ugly gesture. His face was in the
sideway glare of the footlights which illumined the orchestra. Leland,
unconscious of observation, stooped above the girl and chatted with her.
He had one arm about her waist. She was nestling up to him in a trustful
sort of way. Barndale's eyes were on the Greek, and every muscle in his
body was ready for the spring which he knew might have to be made at any
minute. Leland stooped lower, and kissed the face upturned to his. At
that second the band gave its final crash, and dead silence fell. Out of
that dead silence came a shriek of wrath, and hatred, and anguish from
Demetri Agryopoulo's lips, and he leaped into the shadow with a hand
upraised, and in the hand a blade that glittered as he raised it, One
impulse seemed to shoot forth the jealous Greek and his watcher, and
before Demetri Agryopoulo could form the faintest notion as to how the
thing had happened, a sudden thunderbolt seemed launched against him,
and he was lying all abroad with a sprained wrist. The stiletto flew
clean over the wall, so swift and dexterous was the twist which Barndale
gave the murderous hand that held it.

'Get the girl away,' said Barndale rapidly to Leland. The crowd gathered
round, alarmed, curious, eager to observe. Barndale helped the Greek
to his feet. 'Are you hurt?' he asked. Demetri glared at him, felt his
sprained right wrist with his left hand, picked up his hat, shook off
the dust from his disordered clothes, and went his way without a word.
Barndale went his way also. The band crashed out again, and the crowd
once more began its circle. When a torpedo is lowered into the sea, the
wound it makes in the water is soon healed. But the torpedo goes on and
explodes by-and-by, with terrible likelihood of damage.

Barndale came down heavily on Leland, in the latter's bedroom at the
hotel, that night.

'Well,' said Jimmy, in sole answer to his friend's remonstrance and
blame; 'there's one thing about the matter which may be looked on as a
dead certai