She passed him by and stopped at the McKenzie girl’s table. From her basket rested on the white damask she took a cluster of deep red carnations and laid them silently, with her eternal smirk, beside the girl’s plate. No word was exchanged between them; with a grateful smile at the woman the girl pinned the flowers in the front of her dress and Bessie passed on. Desmond waited. Excitement had dulled the edge of his appetite, and he made a pretext of eating while he narrowly watched the girl. Once or twice he caught her glancing archly at him from under her heavy black lashes, and now, as he looked at her, she let her dark eyes rest invitingly on his. He beckoned to the waiter. “Ask the lady in black by the door whether I may offer her a glass of champagne,” he said. The man nodded understandingly, and the next moment Desmond was facing Madeleine McKenzie across the table. Her complete self-possession was the first thing that struck him, for she was obviously quite young. She was not coy about the informality of their meeting, and she received his introductory banalities about the crowd and the band and the food with an air of amused indifference which piqued him. She made him talk about himself, parrying with skill all his efforts to draw her out. Little by little, so sure and sympathetic was her touch, Desmond found himself entering into the spirit of his part, talking of the life of Munich, the Opera, the little _théâtres intimes_, the huge, noisy _brasseries_. “You are used to a life of excitement, then?” she said. It was Desmond’s cue. Swiftly he took it. “Indeed I am,” he answered. “I’ve been only a few hours in London, and I’m sick of it already. Does any one ever have a good time here?” The girl flashed a glance at him from under her long lashes. “If you know where to look for it,” she said softly. “I bet you know your way around,” Desmond replied. She shrugged her shoulders prettily. “My ideas of a good time might not agree with yours,” she countered. “What are your ideas of a good time?” he asked. She sighed. “Gambling!” she answered, “if I could afford it.” Desmond grew alert on the instant. Was this the secret of Finucane’s disappearance, cleaned out in a _tripot_ and ashamed to show his face again? “Now you’re talking,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Tell me, do you know where there’s a game?” She scrutinized his face, turned up to hers. “If I thought you were to be trusted . . .” she began. He shrugged his shoulders. “If you think I’m a police spy! However, I dare say I can find my own way to the roulibouli!” “Now I’ve offended you,” she said, and laid her hand on his arm. “Are you really keen?” “Keen? Gambling’s the only sort of excitement worth while, and I’ve tried most sorts. The shaded lights, the green cloth, the click of the ball, the scrape of the rakes—the night should have four and twenty hours if I had my way!”