“Lucy!” called Rita softly. “Yes?” “Is it—is it really safe here?” Pyne glanced over his shoulder towards the retreating figure of Mrs. Sin, then: “I shall be awake,” he replied. “I would rather you had not come, but since you are here you must go through with it.” He glanced again along the narrow passage created by the presence of the partitions, and spoke in a voice lower yet. “You have never really trusted me, Rita. You were wise. But you can trust me now. Good night, dear.” He walked out of the room and along the carpeted corridor to a little apartment at the back of the house, furnished comfortably but in execrably bad taste. A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, the flue of which had been ingeniously diverted by Sin Sin Wa so that the smoke issued from a chimney of the adjoining premises. On the mantelshelf, which was garishly draped, were a number of photographs of Mrs. Sin in Spanish dancing costume. Pyne seated himself in an armchair and lighted a cigarette. Except for the ticking of a clock the room was silent as a padded cell. Upon a little Moorish table beside a deep, low settee lay a complete opium-smoking outfit. Lolling back in the chair and crossing his legs, Sir Lucien became lost in abstraction, and he was thus seated when, some ten minutes later, Mrs. Sin came in. “Ah!” she said, her harsh voice softened to a whisper. “I wondered. So you wait to smoke with me?” Pyne slowly turned his head, staring at her as she stood in the doorway, one hand resting on her hip and her shapely figure boldly outlined by the kimono. “No,” he replied. “I don’t want to smoke. Are they all provided for?” Mrs. Sin shook her head. “Not Cy,” she said. “Two pipes are nothing to him. He will need two more—perhaps three. But you are not going to smoke?” “Not tonight, Lola.” She frowned, and was about to speak, when: “Lola, my dear,” came a distant, querulous murmur. “Give me another pipe.” Sin tossed her head, turned, and went out again. Sir Lucien lighted another cigarette. When finally the woman came back, Cyrus Kilfane had presumably attained the opium-smoker’s paradise, for Lola closed the door and seated herself upon the arm of Sir Lucien’s chair. She bent down, resting her dusky cheek against his. “You smoke with me?” she whispered coaxingly. “No, Lola, not tonight,” he said, patting her jewel-laden hand and looking aside into the dark eyes which were watching him intently. Mrs. Sin became silent for a few moments. “Something has changed in you,” she said at last. “You are different—lately.” “Indeed!” drawled Sir Lucien. “Possibly you are right. Others have said the same thing.” “You have lots of money now. Your investments have been good. You want to become respectable, eh?” Pyne smiled sardonically. “Respectability is a question of appearance,” he replied. “The change to which you refer would seem to go deeper.”