clustering round a very white forehead. She was in evening dress, all
in white, with an ermine wrap.

Even as I looked at her I knew her and she knew me.

"Monica," I whispered.

"Why! Desmond!" she said.

A regular hubbub echoed from below. Voices were crying out, doors were
banging, there was the sound of feet.

The girl was speaking, saying in her low and pleasant voice phrases that
were vague to me about her surprise, her delight at seeing me. But I did
not listen to her. I was straining my ears towards that volume of
chaotic noises which came swelling up from below.

"Monica!" I interrupted swiftly, "have you any place to hide me? This
place is dangerous for me.... I must get away. If you can't save me,
don't stay here but get away yourself as fast as you can. They're after
me and if they catch you with me it will be bad for you!"

Without a word the girl turned round to the room she had just left. She
beckoned to me, then knocked and went in. I followed her. It was a big,
pleasant bedroom, elegantly furnished with a soft carpet and silk
hangings, and I know not what, with shaded lights and flowers in
profusion. Sitting up in bed was a stout, placid-looking woman in a pink
silk kimono with her hair coquettishly braided in two short pigtails
which hung down on either side of her face.