Ellen's eyes glowed in the candle-light. "You needn't expect me to believe that! Gerald and I knew you were up to something. But it was a dirty trick to desert us like that at the last minute! The evening was a mess." She glared at him rapaciously, as if she were trying to suck his secret from him with her eyes. Almost too astonished to speak, he returned her strange look unflinchingly. "Didn't you get my telephone message?" "Oh, that! Of course. But it's such an old trick! A sick friend wanting Anne at the last minute. It was so very transparent. Things simply don't happen like that!" He contained his anger with difficulty. "You are a very astute lady, but this time a mistaken one, as well," he replied quietly. "Mrs. Schuyler actually did go to a sick friend, and I myself put her into her car and saw her off before telephoning you." Ellen opened sleepy eyes. So it was true, after all? "But who was it? Who is ill?" she inquired eagerly. One of the exotic twins removed the hors d'oeuvres. "I don't know," replied the Marchese curtly. "But as we were about to get into Mrs. Schuyler's car to join you" (he emphasized the last three words with a little bow), "a taxi drove up to the curb and a young girl jumped out, ran up to Anne, and said something I did not quite catch about somebody being very ill and calling for her constantly. So Anne went with her, of course. What else could she do?" "And left you on the curb? Chewing your mustache in a properly thwarted manner!" capped Ellen, exhibiting a masterly knowledge of histrionics. "Exactly." His smile was rueful. Ellen's expression became rapt. Lighting a cigarette, she leaned back and puffed at it furiously. "Who could it have been?" she helped herself to the artichokes. Then her whole face lightened with the dawn of a sudden idea. "I have it!" She looked at Torrigiani gleefully. "I tell you I have it!" His composed face betrayed small interest. Holding his glass of Château Yquem up against the light he studied it intently. "What a marvelous wine." His hand trembled as he let the glass down again with a slight jar. Ellen interrupted him ruthlessly. "It must have been Alexis Petrovskey," she cried triumphantly. His olive skin paled a trifle. "Alexis Petrovskey, the violinist?" His voice was studiously calm. "But weren't the papers full of his disappearance a while ago?" She nodded joyfully. "The same! And thereby hangs the tale! As a matter of fact, he did run away from his sanitarium, but he is back again now, hiding behind Anne's skirts." The Marchese winced. He was a little off his guard. "But I don't understand. When did Anne meet this--person? She has never mentioned him to me." She nodded wisely. "Of course not. Why should she mention him? The whole thing was rather an adventure, you know, for a white, woolly lamb like Anne!" "Are you insinuating anything?" His tone was cold.