She rose, flinging a gay glance at Olga. "Just two turns!" she said.

He held aside the curtain for her, and followed her out, with a
careless jest. The two who were left heard them laughing as they
sauntered away. Olga rose with a shiver.

"What's the matter?" said Nick.

To which she answered, "Nothing," knowing that he would not believe her,
knowing also that he would understand enough to ask no more.

She went to the piano, put aside the mandolin, and began to play. Not
even to Nick, her hero and her close confidant, would she explain the
absolute repugnance that the association of Max Wyndham with her friend
had inspired in her.

But though she played with apparent absorption, her ears were strained
to catch the sound of their voices in the garden behind her, the girl's
light chatter, her companion's brief, cynical laugh. For she knew by the
sure intuition which is a woman's inner and unerring vision, that jest
or trifle as he might his keen brain was actively employed in some
subtle investigation too obscure for her to fathom, and that behind his
badinage and behind his cynicism there sat a man who watched.




CHAPTER VI

THE PAIN-KILLER