he had spoken with him a few nights previously. He took Courteney by the
arm and led him through a door at the side.

"Let 'em yell 'emselves hoarse for a bit!" he said. "Do 'em good. Guess
my 'rose of the world' isn't going to be too cheap a commodity.... Which
reminds me, sir. You've cost me a thousand English pounds by coming here
to-night."

"Indeed?" Courteney spoke stiffly. He felt stiff, physically stiff, as
one forcibly awakened from a deep slumber.

The man beside him was still chuckling. "Yes. The little witch! Said
she'd manage it somehow when I told her you weren't taking any. We had a
thousand on it, and the little devil has won, outwitted us both. How in
thunder did she do it? Laid a trap for you; what?"

Courteney did not answer. The stiffness was spreading. He felt as one
turned to stone. Mechanically he yielded to the hand upon his arm, not
speaking, scarcely thinking.

And then--almost before he knew it--he was in her presence, face to face
with the golden vision that had caught and--for a space at least--had
held his heart.

He bowed, still silent, still strangely bound and fettered by the
compelling force.

A hand that was lithe and slender and oddly boyish came out to him. A
voice that had in it sweet, lilting notes, like the voice of a laughing
child, spoke his name.