Have gone to Gabriel’s bungalow to dance. If you get this in time, will you join us? Nanette. Jack crushed the paper into a ball. “My God! The little fool!” he said. “Why did she send this to _you_?” O’Shea stared the angry lover down, then: “Because she is very young,” he answered, without one note of anger. “Don’t blame her, Kelton--and don’t blame me. Blame the customs of to-day. Leave me out. _You_ are going to save her from Da Cunha.” “Has she started?” “I fear so.” “Then where’s the chance? That swine has a Farman racer!” “True, but he can’t race at night on those roads. It will take him half an hour.” “We have no car!” “We don’t need one. I happen to know a route--a mere goat track--by which we can climb to the bungalow almost as quickly as he can drive there.” “You mean it?” asked Jack hoarsely. “As it happens, I was about to take a stroll in that direction when this note reached me.” “Come on!” said Jack. * * * * * I have the haziest recollection of that appalling climb. O’Shea knew the way like the palm of his hand. Under a sickle moon that looked so near in its white purity one almost felt one could reach up and grasp it, we climbed, panting and sweating. From the gardens of the valley we broke up through banana plantations where the great bursting pods banged our heads as we stooped to follow that tireless guide. We scaled a sheer hillside steep as a roof. We crawled along a path less than a yard wide, with a gorge yawning hundreds of feet below in which the vineyards shrank to a close green carpet. We came to the red earth of the uplands. Our feet sank in it as in moss. Pines barred our way, rank on rank. Away to the left, below, beyond, the still sea shone like lapis lazuli. “Ssh! Quiet!” O’Shea ordered. We pulled up. I looked at Jack. He might recently have come out of the hot-room in a Turkish bath. His collar was a mere farce; a loop of exhausted linen. I believe I was no more spruce. I looked at O’Shea. That remarkable man appeared to be as well-dressed as usual. “Single file,” he commanded. “Not a sound.” We crept on, breathing heavily; and presently, through those sentinel pines on the crest, it reached us--the music of the Savoy orchestra, playing in a distant Strand! “Thank God! We are in time!” said O’Shea. We sighted Da Cunha’s bungalow through the thinning trees. Lights shone out from three tall windows fronting on an L-shaped stoop. The windows were open, and O’Shea made his dispositions. “Kelton,” he directed, “take the window on your right front. Keep out of sight. Wait your moment. Time it. We shall not interfere.” He held out his hand. “This is your chance. Make the most of it.” Jack grasped the extended hand, and: “Thank you, sir!” he said. He went off through the pines, stooping warily.