coats?"

"In the sporran, man.... There!" McLean at last withheld his hand
from its handiwork. "Jock, you're a grand sight," he pronounced with
a special Scottish burr. "If ye dinna win her now--'Bonny Charley's
now awa,'" he sung as Ryder, with a last darkling look at his vivid
image, strode towards the door.

"He's awa' all right--and he'll be back again as soon as he can make
it."

With this cheerless anticipation of the evening's promise, the
departing one stalked, like an exiled Stuart, to his waiting
carriage.

For a moment more McLean kept the ironic smile alive upon his lips,
as he listened to the rattle of the wheels and the harsh gutturals
of the driver, then the smile died as he turned back into the room.

"Eh, but wouldn't you like it, though, Andy," he said to himself,
"if some girl now liked you enough to get you to go to one of those
damned things.... The lucky dog!"

CHAPTER II

MASKS AND MASKERS

Moors and Juliets and Circassian slaves and Knights at Arms were
fast emerging from lift or cloak room, and confronting each other
through their masks in sheepish defiance and curiosity. Adventurous
spirits were circulating. Voices, lowered and guarded, began to
engage in nervous, tittering banter.... Laughter, belatedly
smothered, flared to betrayals....

The orchestra was playing a Viennese waltz and couple after couple
slipped out upon the floor.

Lounging against the wall, Ryder glowered mockingly through his mask
holes at the motley. It was so exactly as he had foreseen. He was
bored--and he was going to be more bored. He was jostled--and he was
going to be more jostled. He was hot--and he was going to be hotter.

Where in the world was Jinny Jeffries? He deserved, he felt,
exhilaratingly kind treatment to compensate him for this insanity.
He gazed about, and encountering a plump shepherdess ogling him he
stepped hastily behind a palm.

He fairly stepped upon a very small person in black. A phantom-like
small person, with the black silk hubarah of the Mohammedan
high-caste woman drawn down to her very brows, and over the entire
face the black street veil. Not a feature visible. Not an eyebrow.
Not an eyelash, not a hint of the small person herself, except a
very small white, ringed hand, lifted as if in defense of his
clumsiness.

"Sorry," said Ryder quickly, and driven by the instinct of
reparation. "Won't you dance?"

A mute shake of the head.

Well, his duty was done. But