They passed out through the throng of diners almost unobserved, but in the corridor Spentoli leaned against a pillar smoking a long, black cigar.  He made no movement to intercept them, but his eyes with their restless fire dwelt upon the girl in a fashion that drew her own irresistibly.  She saw him and slightly paused.

It was the pause of the hunted animal that sees its retreat cut off, but in an instant Saltash’s voice, very cool, arrogantly self-assured, checked the impulse to panic.

“Straight on to the lift, ma chere!  See!  It is there in front of you.  There will be no one in the gallery.  Go straight on!”

She obeyed him instinctively as her habit was, but in the lift she trembled so much that he made her sit down.  He stood beside her in silence, but once lightly his hand touched her cheek.  She moved then swiftly, convulsively, and caught it in both her own.  But the next moment he had gently drawn it free.

The gallery that ran round three sides of the great salon was deserted.  There was only one point at the far end whence a view of the stage that had been erected for the dancer could be obtained.  Towards this Saltash turned.

“We shall see her from here,” he said.

The place was but dimly illumined by the flare of the many lights below—­two great crystal candelabra that hung at each end being left unlighted.  Under one of these was a settee which Saltash drew forward to the balcony.

“No one will disturb us here,” he said.  “We can smoke in peace.”

He offered her his cigarette-case, but she refused it nervously, sitting down in a corner of the settee in the crouched attitude of a frightened creature seeking cover.  The band was playing in the salon now, and people were beginning to crowd in.

Saltash leaned back in his corner and smoked.  His eyes went to and fro ceaselessly, yet the girl beside him was aware of a scrutiny as persistent as if they never left her.  She sat in silence, clasping and unclasping her hands, staring downwards at the shining stage.

Very soon the salon was full of people, and the lights were lowered there while on the stage only a single shaft of blinding violet light remained, shooting downwards from the centre.  Toby’s eyes became fixed upon that shaft of light.  She seemed to have forgotten to breathe.

The band had ceased to play.  There fell a potent silence.  The multitude below sat motionless, as if beneath a spell.  And then she came.

No one saw her coming.  She arrived quite suddenly as though she had slid down that shaft of light.  And she was there before them dancing, dancing, like a winged thing in the violet radiance.  Not a sound broke the stillness save a single, wandering thread of melody that might have come from the throat of a bird, soft, fitful, but half-awake in the dawning.

The violet light was merging imperceptibly into rose—­the unutterable rose of the early morning.  It caught the dancing figure, and she lifted her beautiful face to it and laughed.  The gauzy scarf streamed out from her shoulders like a flame, curving, mounting, sinking, now enveloping the white arms, now flung wide in a circle of glittering splendour.