Nelly outdid herself.  If she were attractive enough ordinarily, when she exerted herself to fascinate, Nelly was intoxicating.  What chance had poor Jack Landis against her?  He did not call for her that night but went to play gloomily at Lebrun’s until Nelly walked into Lebrun’s and drew him away from a table.  Half an hour later she had him whirling through a dance in Milligan’s and had danced the gloom out of his mind for the moment.  Before the evening was well under way, Landis was making love to her openly, and Nelly was in the position of one who had roused the bear.

It was a dangerous flirtation and it was growing clumsy.  In any place other than The Corner it would have been embarrassing long ago; and when Jack Landis, after a dance, put his one big hand over both of Nelly’s and held her moveless while he poured out a passionate declaration, Nelly realized that something must be done.  Just what she could not tell.

And it was at this very moment that a wave of silence, beginning at the door, rushed across Milligan’s dance floor.  It stopped the bartenders in the act of mixing drinks; it put the musicians out of key, and in the midst of a waltz phrase they broke down and came to a discordant pause.

What was it?

The men faced the door, wondering, and then the swift rumor passed from lip to lip—­almost from eye to eye, so rapidly it sped—­Donnegan is coming!  Donnegan, and big George with him.

“Someone tell Milligan!”

But Milligan had already heard; he was back of the bar giving directions; guns were actually unlimbering.  What would happen?

“Shall I get you out of this?” Landis asked the girl.

“Leave now?” She laughed fiercely and silently.  “I’m just beginning to live!  Miss Donnegan in action?  No, sir!”

She would have given a good deal to retract that sentence, for it washed the face of Landis white with jealousy.

Surely Donnegan had built greater than he knew.

And suddenly he was there in the midst of the house.  No one had stopped him—­at least, no one had interfered with his servant.  Big George had on a white suit and a dappled green necktie; he stood directly behind his master and made him look like a small boy.  For Donnegan was in black, and he had a white neckcloth wrapped as high and stiffly as an old-fashioned stock.  Altogether he was a queer, drab figure compared with the brilliant Donnegan of that afternoon.  He looked older, more weary.  His lean face was pale; and his hair flamed with redoubled ardor on that account.  Never was hair as red as that, not even the hair of Lord Nick, said the people in Milligan’s this night.

He was perfectly calm even in the midst of that deadly silence.  He stood looking about him.  He saw Gloster, the real estate man, and bowed to him deliberately.

For some reason that drew a gasp.