"Well--what is it?" "You're down here looking for a diamond necklace known as Chain Lightning's Collar." "Great little guesser, you are. Well--what about it?" "Promise?" "You deliver the goods, and I'll see." "All right. You'll find that necklace in Lord Harrowby's pocket right now. And you'll find Lord Harrowby in a room up-stairs." Mr. Huntley stood for a moment staring at the man he called Craig. Then with a grunt he turned away. Two minutes later, in the bright room above, that same rather vulgar grunt sounded in Lord Harrowby's patrician ear. He turned, and his face paled. Hopelessly he looked toward Minot. Then without a word he followed Huntley from the room. Only two of that excited crowd about the wheel noticed. And these two fled simultaneously to the balcony. There, half hidden behind an ancient musty rug, Cynthia Meyrick and Minot watched together. Harrowby and Huntley descended the soft stairs. At the bottom, Martin Wall and Stacy were waiting. The sound of voices pitched low could be heard on the balcony, but though they strained to hear, the pair above could not. However, they could see the plebeian hand of Mr. Huntley held out to Lord Harrowby. They could see Harrowby reach into his pocket, and bring forth a white envelope. Next they beheld Chain Lightning's Collar gleam in the dusk as Huntley held it up. A few low words, and Harrowby went out with the detective. Martin Wall ascended the stair. On the dim balcony he was confronted by a white-faced girl whose wonderful copper hair had once held Chain Lightning's Collar. "What does it mean?" she asked, her voice low and tense. "Mean?" Martin Wall laughed. "It means that Lord Harrowby must go north and face a United States Commissioner in Jersey City. It seems that when he brought that necklace over he quite forgot to tell the customs officials about it." "Go north! When?" "To-night. On the midnight train. North to Jersey City." Mr. Wall went into the bright room where the excitement buzzed on, oblivious. Cynthia Meyrick turned to Minot. "But he can't possibly get back--" she cried. "No. He can't get back. I'm sorry." "And my wedding dress--came last night." She stood clutching a moth-eaten tapestry in her slim white hand. In the gloom of that dull old balcony her eyes shone strangely. "Some things aren't to be," she whispered. "And"--very faintly--"others are." A thrill shot through Minot, sharp as a pain, but glorious. What did she mean by that? What indeed but the one thing that must not happen--the thing he wanted most of all things in the world to happen--the thing he had come to San Marco to prevent. He came closer to her--and closer--the blood was pounding in his brain. Dazed, exulting, he held out his arms. "Cynthia!" he cried.