"Excuse me, sir, but are you Mr. Roland Bleke? The Senorita Maraquita
wishes to speak to you."

He held open the door of the box. The possibility of refusal did not
appear to occur to him. Behind the scenes at that theater, it was
generally recognized that when the Peerless One wanted a thing, she got
it--quick.

They were alone.

With no protective footlights between himself and her, Roland came to
the conclusion that he had made a mistake. It was not that she was any
less beautiful at the very close quarters imposed by the limits of the
dressing-room; but he felt that in falling in love with her he had
undertaken a contract a little too large for one of his quiet,
diffident nature. It crossed his mind that the sort of woman he really
liked was the rather small, drooping type. Dynamite would not have made
Maraquita droop.

For perhaps a minute and a half Maraquita fixed her compelling eyes on
his without uttering a word. Then she broke a painful silence with this
leading question:

"You love me, _hein_?"

Roland nodded feebly.

"When men make love to me, I send them away--so."