In his intense desire to see the effect of the queerly chosen place on his queerly chosen companion, he now turned to him. And as he saw the effect, every shock of the night seemed to recoil upon him. The feeling of mystery; the foreboding, despite his courage and his conviction that the boy was mad, of the imminent unknown; his recurrent and absorbing curiosity to learn the gruesome secret that he had declared; all rushed one by one back upon him, and then as swiftly left him to the simple grip of horror at his face. It was gazing at woman after woman, here, there and yonder, throughout the large room, deliberately, searchingly, venomously, its great eyes and set lips and every tense haggard line fuller and fuller of an undying hate that eclipsed even that which had shaken Henry Montagu before they came. Appalled and fascinated, he looked with him, and back at him, and with him again, to the next and the next. There were women there, and ladies of every sort, good, bad and indecipherable; yet in every instance the childlike, horribly sophisticated eyes had picked their victim unerringly, deterred by neither clothes, veneer, nor manner. As he stared with him from frightened female face to frightened female face, Mr. Montagu realized shamefully that his own features were helplessly mirroring the detestation of the boy's, and he changed from very pale to very red himself as woman after woman flushed crimson under his gaze. Yet the boy's face grew calm and his voice was perfectly so as he turned at last from his horrid review and met the eyes of his host. "I see what you meant, now, by 'painted' women. Well, they'd much _better_ be dead!" At the tone, cruelly cool as if he planned to see that they were, Mr. Montagu shivered. "Why, _why_ do you hate them like that?" he whispered. The fierce anger flickered dangerously in the great eyes again. "Because they're my enemy! Because they and the wicked thing they mean are my prowling, triumphant enemy, and the enemy of all others like me!" "Oh, my boy, my boy!" pleaded the man of the world, sickly. "You don't realize it, but I can tell you from appearances--some of those women you stared at are here with their _husbands_!" "So was _your_ wife when she came here," said the boy. Mr. Montagu fell back in his chair with a gasp. As swiftly as it had leapt into his mind, the frightful implication of the words leapt out again in his amazement at the boy's knowledge of the incident. But the waiter stepped between them with the order, and in obvious terror now instead of simple aversion, clattered it down with trembling hands. "Go away! Go away!" commanded Mr. Montagu angrily. "_I'll_ arrange it! Go!" And the waiter escaped. "How did you know?" he asked; but without waiting for a reply he poured out the boy's wine and his own, and took a long hasty draft. "Now, how did you?"