“I don’t want to dance any more,” she said petulantly, when the Major had gone, “at least, not to this silly band.” “It’s an excellent band, dear,” her mother replied, watching Nanette with a sudden maternal anxiety. “They play such old stuff,” Nanette declared. “‘Brown Eyes, Why Are You Blue?’ is wildly out of date. They are liable to break into ‘Rock of Ages’ almost any minute!” “Then what do you want to do?” “I want to drive up to Gabriel’s and dance to the Savoy band.” “Nanette!”--her mother spoke sharply--“I have already told you that I absolutely refuse. You heard what your father said?” “No, Mumsy, I didn’t,” Nanette replied. “_You_ told me. I would like to ask Pop.” But “Pop” had retired with a _Financial News_ and three old copies of the _Morning Post_. “Then I’m going to bed,” Nanette announced. “I have a headache.” She turned and walked from the ballroom. Da Cunha detained her in the doorway, but only for a moment. Then he crossed the floor and went out on to the terrace. A few minutes later I strolled up to my room to get a pipe. The window was open, and I lingered in the dark for a moment, held by the moon-magic of the night. As I stood there, I heard a soft call: “Nanette!” Nanette’s room was below and to the left of mine. I looked out. I could see a slender silvery figure leaning over the balcony. “Is that you, Gabriel?” “Yes, dear.” “In five minutes!” CHAPTER VI. THE BUNGALOW IN THE HILLS Personality is a queer thing. Nobody has quite defined it yet. In my wild quest of a plan to save Nanette from herself, without letting her mother know and without compromising her, I came straight to what looked to me like an inevitable decision--I decided to tell O’Shea. What I thought he could do that I couldn’t do alone, God knows; but the Guards used to feel like that about him. One fear I had: that he should have started out on whatever mysterious business called him. I raced across to his room. It was in darkness. I went hareing down to the lounge. Dancing was in full swing; no sign of O’Shea. I grabbed the hall porter. “Has Major O’Shea gone out?” “No, sir. Not this way.” I turned, hope reborn--and there stood O’Shea reading a note that a chambermaid had just handed to him! “O’Shea!” I cried. He glanced up. His face was very stern. His eyes glinted icily. “Go and get Kelton,” he said. “Bring him here--alone.” “But Nanette----” “I know all about Nanette. Bring Kelton to me.” I ran. I was under orders. But it was a service of love. Jack was in the bar--quite alone. He looked at me in a lowering way. “Nanette’s in danger,” I said briefly. He jumped up. “Come quickly.” When we got to the hall porter’s sanctum, and he saw who was waiting, he pulled up with a jerk. “What the hell has _he_ got to do with it?” he demanded. “Mr. Kelton!” O’Shea was watching him. “Well, what is it?” “This!” O’Shea handed him the note. “You read it, too, Decies.” Jack and I read together: