But something deeper than convention, some warning born of that
too-often consulted watch and that strange look in her eyes, that
uneasy fear and swift resolve, turned him quickly about again.

Other couples had strolled between them. He hurried through and
stepped back among the palms.

The place was empty. The black domino was gone.

* * * * *

He wasted one minute in assuring himself that she was not hidden in
some corner, not mingled with the crowd. But the niche was deserted
as a rifled nest. Then his eyes spied the door that the green
decorations had conspired to hide and he wrenched it open.

He found himself on a little balcony overlooking the hotel garden.
He knew the place in daytime--palms and shrubs and a graveled walk
and painted chairs where he had drunk tea with Jinny and watched a
Russian tourist beautifully smoking cigarettes.

Now the place was strange. Night and a crescent moon had wrought
their magic, and the garden was a mystery of velvet dusks and ivory
pallors. The graveled path ran glimmering beneath the magnolias.
Over the wall's blankness the eucalyptus defined its crooked lines
against the blue Egyptian sky.

No living thing was there ... nothing ... or did that shadow stir?
There, just at the path's end.