knowledge that Clarence Breckenridge was dying by his own hand,
and his daughter on the ocean, and that this woman in the Indian
dress, with painted lips and a tiger skin outlining her beautiful
figure, had been his wife.

This she had expected, and this was as she had expected. But there
were other circumstances that made her feel even more acutely the
turn of the screw. Joe Butler, always Clarence's closest friend,
did not come to the dance, and at about twelve o'clock an innocent
maid delivered to Warren a message that several persons besides
Warren heard: "Mr. Butler to speak to you on the telephone, Doctor
Gregory."

Everyone could surmise where Joe Butler was, but no one voiced the
supposition. Warren, handsome in his skirted coat, knee breeches,
and ruffles, disappeared from the room, and the dancing went on.
The scene was unbelievably brilliant, the hot, bright air sweet
with flowers and perfume, and the more subtle odors of silk and
fine linen and powder on delicate skin. Warren was presently among
them again, and there was a supper, the hostess' lovely face
showing no more strain or concern than was natural to a woman
eager to make comfortable nearly a hundred guests.

After supper there was more dancing, and an augmented gayety.
There were no more telephone messages, nor was there any definite
foundation for the rumor that was presently stealthily
circulating. Women, powdering their noses as they waited for their
wraps, murmured it in the dressing-rooms; a clown, smoking in the
hall, confided it to a Mephistopheles; a pastry cook, after his
effusive good-nights, confirmed it as he climbed into the motorcar