“I mean, if I held your hand. You see, _you’re not alone_, Joan . . . not—alone—in the boat.” “_Perry!_” Trembling with excitement, the man continued jerkily. “All you’ve said of yourself you might have been saying of me. I’m in the same boat, Joan. I’ve been there for seven years. And I haven’t the nerve to plunge—either. I can preach, but I can’t practise. But I think I might save myself if I tried to save you.” Joan clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, Perry, I’m frightened,” she breathed. “Supposing he——” “He’ll be asleep,” said Peregrine. “Listen. We get to Bordeaux about one. Bordeaux’s the place. Come out of your sleeper there. I’ll—I’ll be in the corridor. We must let our big baggage go.” The sweat was running on his forehead. Impatiently he wiped it off. “Write your letter to Paris the moment you’re back.” With a bursting heart— “You’ll—you’ll leave me on the platform, won’t you? I mean . . .” The girl was panting. “Not that I don’t care, dear, but I wouldn’t like . . .” “I—I swear,” said the man uncertainly. Joan’s brain staggered. “We must—must play the game,” she faltered, half to herself. Suddenly she caught at his arm. “Oh, Perry, you _will_ be there? You won’t let me down? If I came out of my sleeper, and you weren’t there . . .” “I will be there.” Joan gave a little sob. Then she looked up. “I’m an awful funk,” she quavered. Peregrine rose and put her hand to his lips. He was quite calm now. “Buck up, my lady,” he said. “The sea’s falling.” Joan’s world rocked. The trick had been done. The game was as good as played. The fallen sparrow was up—spreading its wings. Very soon now it would be out of sight. Only the decoy would be left—fallen on the ground. Only the decoy. . . . Her own words flamed at her. ‘The door’s open—I’ve only got to walk out.’ It was, indeed, ‘the easiest thing in the world.’ One didn’t need any nerve to step _into heaven_. Besides, he was her man—had always been. Already they’d lost seven years. . . . Two figures loomed out of the shadows. “The only objection to masks,” purred a familiar voice, “is that if a wife should want her husband she can’t find him.” With his back to the speaker, Peregrine stood like a rock. “For my part,” came the reply, “I should call it a virtue.” A provoking laugh answered him. As the figures passed on, the mist lifted and Joan saw her path clear cut. ‘He that hath clean hands . . .’ She was out to rescue, but not to rob. “Let’s go and dance once more,” she said quietly. “Then I’ll slip away.” Peregrine muffled his face, and they passed back into the ball-room, the slam and stutter of ragtime and the slash of the coloured lights. . . . As the dance ended— “God bless you, Perry,” breathed Joan. “It’s—it’s been like heaven. You—you _will_ be there, dear?” Peregrine smiled back. “Buck up, my lady.” An instant later the girl was lost in the press. * * * * * Some thirty-six hours had gone by.