“Why Terry Sheehan!  What in the world!”

Terry’s eyes bored beneath the layers of flabby fat.  “It’s—­why, it’s Ruby Watson, isn’t it?  Eccentric Song and Dance—­”

She glanced at the concave young man and faltered.  He was not Jim, of the Bijou days.  From him her eyes leaped back to the fur-bedecked splendour of the woman.  The plump face went so painfully red that the makeup stood out on it, a distinct layer, like thin ice covering flowing water.  As she surveyed that bulk Terry realised that while Ruby might still claim eccentricity, her song and dance days were over.  “That’s ancient history, m’dear.  I haven’t been working for three years.  What’re you doing in this joint?  I’d heard you’d done well for yourself.  That you were married.”

“I am.  That is I—­well, I am.  I—­”

At that the dark young man leaned over and patted Terry’s hand that lay on the counter.  He smiled.  His own hand was incredibly slender, long, and tapering.

“That’s all right,” he assured her, and smiled.  “You two girls can have a reunion later.  What I want to know is can you play by ear?”

“Yes, but—­”

He leaned far over the counter.  “I knew it the minute I heard you play.  You’ve got the touch.  Now listen.  See if you can get this, and fake the bass.”

He fixed his sombre and hypnotic eyes on Terry.  His mouth screwed up into a whistle.  The tune—­a tawdry but haunting little melody—­came through his lips.  And Terry’s quick ear sensed that every note was flat.  She turned back to the piano.  “Of course you know you flatted every note,” she said.

This time it was the blonde woman who laughed, and the man who flushed.  Terry cocked her head just a little to one side, like a knowing bird, looked up into space beyond the piano top, and played the lilting little melody with charm and fidelity.  The dark young man followed her with a wagging of the head and little jerks of both outspread hands.  His expression was beatific, enraptured.  He hummed a little under his breath and any one who was music wise would have known that he was just a half-beat behind her all the way.

When she had finished he sighed deeply, ecstatically.  He bent his lean frame over the counter and, despite his swart colouring, seemed to glitter upon her—­his eyes, his teeth, his very finger-nails.

“Something led me here.  I never come up on Tuesdays.  But something—­”

“You was going to complain,” put in his lady, heavily, “about that Teddy Sykes at the Palace Gardens singing the same songs this week that you been boosting at the Inn.”

He put up a vibrant, peremptory hand.  “Bah!  What does that matter now!  What does anything matter now!  Listen Miss—­ah—­Miss?—­”

“Pl—­Sheehan.  Terry Sheehan.”

He gazed off a moment into space.  “H’m.  ’Leon Sammett in Songs.  Miss Terry Sheehan at the Piano.’  That doesn’t sound bad.  Now listen, Miss Sheehan.  I’m singing down at the University Inn.  The Gottschalk song hits.  I guess you know my work.  But I want to talk to you, private.  It’s something to your interest.  I go on down at the Inn at six.  Will you come and have a little something with Ruby and me?  Now?”