She glanced up at her companion, Sir Lucien Pyne, a swarthy, cynical type of aristocrat, imperturbably.  Then:  “I had left a note for you, Quentin,” she said hurriedly.  She seemed to be in a dangerously high-strung condition.

“But I have booked a table and a box,” cried Gray, with a hint of juvenile petulance.

“My dear Gray,” said Sir Lucien coolly, “we are men of the world—­and we do not look for consistency in womenfolk.  Mrs. Irvin has decided to consult a palmist or a hypnotist or some such occult authority before dining with you this evening.  Doubtless she seeks to learn if the play to which you propose to take her is an amusing one.”

His smile of sardonic amusement Gray found to be almost insupportable, and although Sir Lucien refrained from looking at Mrs. Irvin whilst he spoke, it was evident enough that his words held some covert significance, for: 

“You know perfectly well that I have a particular reason for seeing him,” she said.

“A woman’s particular reason is a man’s feeble excuse,” murmured Sir Lucien rudely.  “At least, according to a learned Arabian philosopher.”

“I was going to meet you at Prince’s,” said Mrs. Irvin hurriedly, and again glancing at Gray.  There was a pathetic hesitancy in her manner, the hesitancy of a weak woman who adheres to a purpose only by supreme effort.

“Might I ask,” said Gray, “the name of the pervert you are going to consult?”

Again she hesitated and glanced rapidly at Sir Lucien, but he was staring coolly in another direction.

“Kazmah,” she replied in a low voice.

“Kazmah!” cried Gray.  “The man who sells perfume and pretends to read dreams?  What an extraordinary notion.  Wouldn’t tomorrow do?  He will surely have shut up shop!”

“I have been at pains to ascertain,” replied Sir Lucien, “at Mrs. Irvin’s express desire, that the man of mystery is still in session and will receive her.”

Beneath the mask of nonchalance which he wore it might have been possible to detect excitement repressed with difficulty; and had Gray been more composed and not obsessed with the idea that Sir Lucien had deliberately intruded upon his plans for the evening, he could not have failed to perceive that Mrs. Monte Irvin was feverishly preoccupied with matters having no relation to dinner and the theatre.  But his private suspicions grew only the more acute.

“Then if the dinner is not off,” he said, “may I come along and wait for you?”

“At Kazmah’s?” asked Mrs. Irvin.  “Certainly.”  She turned to Sir Lucien.  “Shall you wait?  It isn’t much use as I’m dining with Quentin.”

“If I do not intrude,” replied the baronet, “I will accompany you as far as the cave of the oracle, and then bid you good night.”