As he spoke, he reached out a long, lazy left. It looked effortless, but it was perfectly timed, perfectly measured. It started in the ball of his suddenly rigid right foot and from there carried every amp. of energy in his body to the point of Da Cunha’s jaw. There was a pleasant snapping sound. Da Cunha went down like a poleaxed ox. Nanette sat silent, a second Niobe. “Decies!” cried O’Shea. “The revolver! We have no time to waste!” I ran in, passing the weapon to him. “Attend to Kelton,” he directed. “We must get him away.” He crossed to a door right of the divan and went into a room beyond, which was dimly lighted. “Mr. Decies----” Nanette began. Came the sound of a pistol shot… a second! There followed a splintering crash. Nanette leapt to her feet, and turned--as O’Shea came out again, carrying a small black dispatch-box. He put it on the coffee table. Jack stirred and groaned. Nanette’s gaze never left O’Shea. And now, timidly approaching him: “I was mad,” she whispered. “Oh, thank you!” She swayed and sank into his arms, her perfect lips raised to his in offering. “Can you forgive me?” He held her for a moment, very tenderly, looking into her eyes, then: “I have nothing to forgive, little girl,” he said. “You have been foolish, but I don’t think you will ever be so foolish again.” Gently, he set her aside, and: “Decies,” said he, “lend a hand with Kelton. We will borrow the Farman.” CHAPTER VII. A SHORT NOTE Wonderful to relate, we managed to keep secret the story of Nanette’s indiscretion. Her mother never knew that she had left her room. And it was toward dusk of the following day that the first act of the tragi-comedy came to a close. To Ensleigh’s inquiries touching my disappearance from the dance, I had returned evasive replies. Jack kept his room, for good and sufficient reasons, and O’Shea had gone into the town early and had not come back. Nanette remained invisible. For all the glory of the Madeiran sunshine and the wonder of the flowers, black depression sat heavily upon us. I was lounging on the terrace at about six o’clock wondering what Nanette was doing and whether her mother suspected anything, when O’Shea suddenly walked out to me. “Hello!” I cried. “I thought you had gone for good!” “No,” he answered musingly, “not yet.” He sank into a chair, as though dog weary. “Had a hard day?” I asked. “Fairly,” he replied; “but I’ve done my job. I suspect there are harder to come.” He paused, then: “Have you seen Nanette?” he asked. “No,” I stared at him. “O’Shea, tell me if you resent my frankness--but that girl’s madly in love with you.” “I don’t resent it, Decies,” he answered. “I know she thinks she is. But Nanette is very young. There is something you don’t know--that nobody else will ever know.” I looked into the gray eyes. But they were not cold: they were on fire! I drew a sharp breath. “O’Shea----” I began. He nodded, and gripped my hand hard.