“Sheila,” exclaimed Carruthers, “my friend here is something more than anxious to make your acquaintance. But for important reasons of his own, which must be nameless—he desires you to know him as Mr. X. Strictly speaking you see, he is not supposed to be here at all—therefore I submit to this whim of his.” He effected the introduction. “Talk to him for a few moments, Sheila,” he added, “you will find him as intriguing and as mysterious as the name under which he is temporarily cloaking his identity. I’ll return when I think you’ve been sufficiently entertained.” He waved his hand and slithered away across the dance-floor. Sheila Delaney looked at the man who had sought her out. He indicated two of the lounge seats that were arranged at the side of the ballroom. “Well!” she said. “Well!” he replied. She leant over and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “You hold a distinct initial advantage over me, you know, Mr. X. Anonymity is such a terribly strong position in which to entrench one’s self. To you I am Sheila Delaney—to me you are—an unknown quantity.” He smiled appreciatively. “Yet one usually concludes by finding the value of X—shall we say.” “If one is successful,” she replied, “you have to be successful, you know, to discover the _true_ value.” He smiled again. “I think I am going to like you,” she went on very frankly and disarmingly, “there is something about you that attracts me—you have a—what shall I call it—a ‘_je ne sais quoi_’——” He fingered her fan with a kind of mocking assurance playing round the line of his lips. She lifted her left hand as he did so. “Hark!” she exclaimed, “those violins—I love violins—they _croon_—don’t they? They’ve got something in their music that no other instrument has—‘silky susurrus of petticoats ravishing—violins crooning above—drowsy exotics their essences lavishing—whispers of Scandal and Love’—I’m afraid I’ve misquoted,” she continued breathlessly, “but a perfectly topping dance always makes me think of that.” “You like dancing?” he asked simply. “I adore it,” she answered just as simply—then relapsed into a contemplative silence. Suddenly she looked up at him with mischievous eyes. “Do you dance?” she inquired. “Very seldom—but I’m sorely tempted to dance to-night.” His eyes held a depth of meaning. “That’s very charming of you,” she remarked, “and if you’re anything like me—and I’m sure you are in some things—you delight in yielding to temptation.” Her eyes caught his and challenged them. They were—he concluded—in a quite breathless summing up—rather extraordinary eyes. Quickly changing colour, at this precise moment they seemed to be flecked with strange shades of light green. They were challenging his now with an allurement of demure and dainty invitation. She rose and placed her finger-tips on his broad shoulder. “I’m convinced you dance beautifully,” she murmured as they stepped off to the rhythm of the Red Ruritanians, “so don’t attempt to deny it.”