As the song died out into the August night, Nick rose. "That girl's a
siren," he said. "Come along! We're wasting our time in here."

Max stooped laconically to knock the ashes from his pipe. His face as
he stood up again was quite expressionless. "You lead the way," he said.
"Are you going to leave your cigar behind? I suppose cigarettes are
allowed?"

"I should think so, as the lady smokes them herself." Nick opened the
door with the words, but paused a moment looking back at his companion
quizzically. "Good luck to you, old chap!" he said.

Max's hand came out of his pocket with a jerk. He still had it bandaged,
but he managed to grip hard with it nevertheless. But he did not utter a
word.

They passed into the drawing-room with the lazy, tolerant air of men
expecting to be amused; and Olga, with all her keenness, was very far
from suspecting aught of what had just passed between them.

She and Violet were both near the open window, the latter with her
instrument lying on her knee, its crimson ribbons streaming to the
floor. She herself was very simply attired in white. The vivid beauty of
her outlined against the darkness of the open French window was such as
to be almost startling. She smiled a sparkling welcome.

"Dr. Wyndham, I've decided to call you Max; not because I like it,--I
think it's hideous,--but because it's less trouble. I thought it as well
to explain at the outset, so that there should be no misunderstanding."