es. But by common consent Pauline seemed to have
been surrendered to the attentions of the evening pest, who had become
a midnight host.

He leaned toward her with an ardor that he did not even attempt to
disguise. "You are the most wonderful woman in--"

"Please make it the universe," pleaded Pauline. "There are so many
most wonderful women in the world."

"No, let us say chaos," he whispered. "The chaos of a man's heart can
be ruled only by the charming uncertainty of woman."

The intensity of his words brought to Pauline again the twinge of
alarm. Unconsciously she looked around for Harry. It was the last
thing in the world she had meant to do. She was angry at herself in an
instant, for his fixed, guarding gaze was upon her. She met his eyes
and turned quickly to Baskinelli.

"Chaos? I've always loved that word," she flashed. "There must be so
many lovely adventures where there are no laws."

"I said the chaos in a man's heart could be ruled by a woman," said
Baskinelli.

The impudence of this sudden love making moved her unexpectedly to
defiance.

"Please let it be ruled, Signor Baskinelli," she said, turning away
from him.

Baskinelli had sense enough to see that he had gone too far. He turned
to the others as the soft-footed Orientals began to spread the mixed
and mysterious viands on the table.

He glanced at Owen. By the slightest movement imaginable, by the least
uplift of his black brows, Owen answered. For the first time
Baskinelli knew that the lovely quarry he pursued had a protector--
and no mean, no weak protector.

But the arrival of the repast quickly covered the general
embarrassment. Everybody could see that Pauline and Harry had had a
quarrel and that Pauline, was flirting outrageously with Baskenelli
simply for revenge--that is, every one except Harry could see it.

"Pardon me, but is that what you call a graft investigation that you
are making, Miss Hamlin?" inquired Baskinelli.

"No, but the food is so funny. There are so many queer things present,
but unidentified," laughed Lucille.

"Like a reception to a foreign artist," interrupted Harry with a
vindictive glare.

"Or shall we say like the conversation of an unhappy guest," said
Baskinelli, smilingly turning to note the entrance of a little party of
newcomers at the further end of the restaurant.

A dashing, well-dressed, fiery-eyed foreigner, the tips of whose waxed
mustachios turned up like black stalagmi