Joan was happy—happier than she remembered having been. Perhaps it was the reaction from her voluntary imprisonment. Certainly it was Monty’s reluctant agreement to a change of plans which so exalted her. Monty had dropped the thin pretence of an accommodation marriage; and once he was persuaded to this, the last hindrance to enjoyment was dissipated. Let Oberzohn take the girl if he wanted her; take, too, such heavy responsibility as followed. Monty Newton would get all that he wanted without the risk. Having arrived at this decision, he had ordered another bottle of champagne to seal the bargain, and they left Mero’s club a much happier couple than they had been when they entered. “As soon as we’ve carved up this money, we’ll get away out of England,” he told her as they were driving to the theatre. “What about Buenos Ayres for the winter, old girl?” She did not know where Buenos Ayres was, but she gurgled her delight at the suggestion, and Monty expatiated upon the joys of the South American summer, the beauties of B.A., its gaieties and amusements. “I don’t suppose there’ll be any kick coming,” he said, “but it wouldn’t be a bad scheme if we took a trip round the world, and came back in about eighteen months’ time to settle down in London. My hectic past would have been forgotten by then—why, I might even get into Parliament.” “How wonderful!” she breathed, and then: “What is this play about, Monty?” “It’s a bit of a thrill, the very play for you—a detective story that will make your hair stand on end.” She had all the gamin’s morbid interest in murder and crime, and she settled down in the box with a pleasant feeling of anticipation, and watched the development of the first act. The scene was laid in a club, a low-down resort where the least desirable members of society met, and she drank in every word, because she knew the life, had seen that type of expensively dressed woman who swaggered on to the stage and was addressed familiarly by the club proprietor. She knew that steady-eyed detective when he made his embarrassing appearance. The woman was herself. She even knew the cadaverous wanderer who approached stealthily at the door: a human wolf that fled at the sight of the police officer. The three who sat in the front row of the stalls—how Leon Gonsalez secured these tickets was one of the minor mysteries of the day—saw her, and one at least felt his heart ache. Monty beamed his geniality. He had taken sufficient wine to give him a rosy view of the world, and he was even mildly interested in the play, though his chief pleasure was in the girl’s enchantment. He ordered ices for her after the first interval. “You’re getting quite a theatre fan, kiddie,” he said. “I must take you to some other shows. I had no idea you liked this sort of thing.” She drew a long breath and smiled at him.