The band had stopped, a rustle of hand-clapping came from the hot dancers, and almost before the applause had started the second band struck up “Kulloo.”

Mirabelle was not especially happy. Her partner was the most correct of dancers, but they lacked just that unity of purpose, that oneness of interest which makes all the difference between the ill- and the well-matched.

“May we sit down?” she begged. “I am rather hot.”

“Will the gracious lady come to the little hall?” he asked. “It is cooler there, and the chairs are comfortable.”

She looked at him oddly.

“ ‘Gracious lady’ is a German expression⁠—why do you use it, Lord Evington? I think it is very pretty,” she hastened to assure him.

“I lived for many years in Germany,” said Mr. Gurther. “I do not like the German people⁠—they are so stupid.”

If he had said “German police” he would have been nearer to the truth; and had he added that the dislike was mutual, he might have gained credit for his frankness.

At the end of the room, concealed by the floral decorations of the bandstand, was a door which led to a smaller room, ordinarily separated from the main hall by folding doors which were seldom opened. Tonight the annex was to be used as a conservatory. Palms and banked flowers were everywhere. Arbours had been artificially created, and there were cosy nooks, half-hidden by shrubs, secluded seats and tables, all that ingenuity could design to meet the wishes of sitters-out.

He stood invitingly at the entrance of a little grotto, dimly illuminated by one Chinese lantern.

“I think we will sit in the open,” said Mirabelle, and pulled out a chair.

“Excuse me.”

Instantly he was by her side, the chair arranged, a cushion found, and she sank down with a sigh of relief. It was early yet for the loungers: looking round, she saw that, but for a solitary waiter fastening his apron with one eye upon possible customers, they were alone.

“You will drink wine⁠ ⁠… no? An orangeade? Good!” He beckoned the waiter and gave his order. “You must excuse me if I am a little strange. I have been in Germany for many years⁠—except during the war, when I was in France.”

Mr. Gurther had certainly been in Germany for many years, but he had never been in France. Nor had he heard a shot fired in the war. It is true that an aerial bomb had exploded perilously near the prison at Mainz in which he was serving ten years for murder, but that represented his sole warlike experience.

“You live in the country, of course?”

“In London: I am working with Mr. Oberzohn.”

“So: he is a good fellow. A gentleman.”

She had not been very greatly impressed by the doctor’s breeding, but it was satisfying to hear a stranger speak with such heartiness of her new employer. Her mind at the moment was on Heavytree Farm: the cool parlour with its chintzes⁠—a room, at this hour, fragrant with the night scents of flowers which came stealing through the open casement. There was a fox-terrier, Jim by name, who would be wandering disconsolately from room to room, sniffing unhappily at the hall door. A lump came up into her throat. She felt very far from home and very lonely. She wanted to get up and run back to where she had left Joan and tell her that she had changed her mind and must go back to Gloucester that night⁠ ⁠… she looked impatiently for the waiter. Mr. Gurther was fiddling with some straws he had taken from the glass container in the centre of the table. One end of the straws showed above the edge of the table, the others were thrust deep in the wide-necked little bottle he had in the other hand. The hollow straws held half an inch of the red powder that filled the bottle.

“Excuse!”

The waiter put the orangeades on the table and went away to get change. Mirabelle’s eyes were wistfully fixed on a little door at the end of the room. It gave to the street, and there were taxicabs which could get her to Paddington in ten minutes.

When she looked round he was stirring the amber contents of her glass with a spoon. Two straws were invitingly protruding from the foaming orangeade. She smiled and lifted the glass as he fitted a cigarette into his long black holder.

“I may smoke⁠—yes?”

The first taste she had through the straws was one of extreme bitterness. She made a wry face and put down the glass.

“How horrid!”

“Did it taste badly⁠ ⁠… ?” he began, but she was pouring out water from a bottle.

“It was most unpleasant⁠—”

“Will you try mine, please?” He offered the glass to her and she drank. “It may have been something in the straw.” Here he was telling her the fact.

“It was⁠ ⁠…”

The room was going round and round, the floor rising up and down like the deck of a ship in a stormy sea. She rose, swayed, and caught him by the arm.

“Open the little door, waiter, please⁠—the lady is faint.”

The waiter turned to the door and threw it open. A man stood there⁠—just outside the door. He wore over his dinner dress a long cloak in the Spanish style. Gurther stood staring, a picture of amused dismay, his cigarette still unlit. He did not move his hands. Gonsalez was waiting there, alert⁠ ⁠… death grinning at him⁠ ⁠… and then the room went inky black. Somebody had turned the main switch.