“Look at those two men standing near the door!” she said. “There, close to the buffet. What do you think of them? Do tell me: I’ve a reason for asking.” Sybil’s eyes followed hers. The two men were both noticeable, but one of them was so striking in appearance that one hardly had eyes for any one else near by. He was a very tall, very broad, very conspicuous type of man. Everything about him was superlative—even the air of brooding ill temper which for the moment he seemed to wear. He was exceedingly dark, with swarthy coloring, coal-black hair, thick and tumbled, and deeply set black eyes. His features were strong and heavy, but well shaped. Indeed, he was in his general effect unquestionably handsome, and the impression which he made was one not lightly to be felt nor quickly to be forgotten. “Well?” insisted Miss Legaye impatiently, as Sybil did not immediately speak. “I asked you what you thought of him.” This time she did not say “them,” but Sybil did not notice the altered word. The girl continued to look at the tall, dark man as though she were mesmerized, and when she spoke it was in a curious, detached tone, as she might have spoken if she were thinking aloud. “He is a very strange man,” she said. “He does not belong here in a Broadway restaurant. He should be somewhere where things are wild and wonderful and free—and perhaps rather terrible. I think he belongs in—is it Egypt? He would be quite splendid in Egypt. Or—the prairies——” She spoke dreamily as she stared at him. “You look as though he were a ghost, not a man!” exclaimed Kitty, with a laugh. “I must tell him what you said——” “Tell him?” repeated Sybil, rousing herself. “You know him, then?” “My dear child,” said Kitty Legaye, “that is Alan Mortimer!” At the same moment Mortimer caught sight of her and strode toward her, passing between the fragile little luncheon tables with the energy of a whirlwind. “Guess what has happened now!” he exclaimed in a deep but singularly clear and beautifully pitched voice. “Dukane has fired Templeton, and apparently I open little more than two weeks from to-night without a leading woman! What do you know about that!” “Without a leading woman? No, you don’t, either,” promptly rejoined Kitty, the inspired. She always liked a neat climax for a scene, especially when she could supply it herself. “I’ve just picked out Miss Merivale to play _Lucille_.” Breathless and amazed, Sybil looked up to meet his eyes. They were dark and piercing. At first she thought only of that, and of their fire and beauty. Then something obscurely evil seemed for a transient second to look out of them. “What an awful man!” she said to herself. But he was holding out his hand. “Did you think of that all by yourself, Kit?” he said. A faint but rather attractive smile lightening his moody eyes. “How do you do—Lucille? You may consider the engagement—ah—confirmed.” But Sybil, as she drew her hand away, felt vaguely frightened—she could not have told why.