looked up sharply. He stretched out one
long slender hand in a sudden gesture of urgency. His face, upon the
moment, recovered its wonted vivacity.

"Go to her," he said. "Go to her, O'Neill; you are young and long-
legged; you have the face of one to whom adventures are due. She will
receive you. Speak to her; tell her--tell her of this gloomy room and
its booming echoes and the little white bed in the middle of it. Make
your voice warm, O'Neill, and tell her of all of it. Then, perhaps,
she will come."

There was no mistaking his earnestness. O'Neill stared at him in
astonishment. Regnault moistened his lips, breathing hard.

"Really," said O'Neill, "I don't quite know how to answer you,
Regnault."

Regnault put the empty phrase from him with a movement of impatience.

"Go to her," he said again, and his brows creased in effort. "Is it
because she is religious that you hesitate! You think I am an offence
to her religion? O'Neill, I will offer it no offence. I have myself
an instinct that way now. It is true. I have."

"Wait," said O'Neill. He was thinking confusedly. "You know you're
like a spoiled child, Regnault. You'd die for a thing so long as some
one denied it you. Now, what strikes me is this. Your wife ought to
be with you, as a matter of decent usage and--and all that. But if
you want her here just so that you can flog up the thrill of one of
your old beastly adventures, I'll not lift a finger to help you.
D'you see!"

Regnault nodded. Buscarlet, standing behind the bed, was trembling
like a man in an ague.

"I'll go to Ronda, and do what I can," said O'Neill, "so long as
you're playing fair. But I've got to be sure of that, Regnault."

Regnault nodded again. "I see," he answered. "What shall I say to
you? Will you not trust me, O'Neill, in a question of taste? Morals--
I don't say. But taste--come now!"

"You mean, you want to see your wife in ordinary affection and--well,
and because she is your wife?" demanded O'Neill.

"You put it very well," replied Regnault placidly. "Give me some
paper and I will write you her name and address. And, O'Neill, I have
an idea! I will give you, for your own, 'The Dancer.' It shall be my
last joke. After this, I am earnest."

He wrote painfully on the paper which they gave him.

"There," he said, when he had done. "And now I will compose myself."

Buscarlet saw O'Neill forth of the door, for he was to leave for
Spain in the morning. On the threshold he ta