They ran back into the hall.  The young fellow who was left indolently attempted to kiss his partner, who blew smoke in his face.  Then at a louder blast of jazz they bounced away.  The next moment a third couple appeared, probably from another door down the hall.  They did not observe Lane.  The girl was slim, dainty, gorgeously arrayed, and her keen, fair face bore traces of paint wet by perspiration.  Her companion was Captain Vane Thesel, in citizen’s garb, well-built, ruddy-faced, with tiny curled moustache.

“Hurry, kid,” he said, breathlessly, as he pulled at her.  “We’ll run down and take a spin.”

“Spiffy!  But let’s wait till after the next,” she replied.  “It’s Harold’s and I came with him.”

“Tell him it was up to him to find you.”

“But he might get wise to a car ride.”

“He’d do the same.  Come on,” returned Thesel, who all the time was leading her down the stairway step by step.

They disappeared.  From the open window Lane saw them go down the street and get into a car and ride away.  He glanced at his watch, muttering.  “This is a new stunt for dances.  I just wonder.”  He watched, broodingly and sombrely.  It was not his sister, but it might just as well have been.  Two dances and a long intermission ended before Lane saw the big auto return.  He watched the couple get out, and hurry up, to disappear at the entrance.  Then Lane changed his position, and stood directly at the head of the stairway under the light.  He had no interest in Captain Vane Thesel.  He just wanted to get a close look at the girl.

Presently he heard steps, heavy and light, and a man’s deep voice, a girl’s low thrill of laughter.  They turned the curve in the stairway and did not see Lane until they had mounted to the top.

With cool steady gaze Lane studied the girl.  Her clear eyes met his.  If there was anything unmistakable in Lane’s look at her, it was not from any deception on his part.  He tried to look into her soul.  Her smile—­a strange indolent little smile, remnant of excitement—­faded from her face.  She stared, and she put an instinctive hand up to her somewhat dishevelled hair.  Then she passed on with her companion.

“Of all the nerve!” she exclaimed.  “Who’s that soldier boob?”

Lane could not catch the low reply.  He lingered there a while longer, and then returned to the hall, much surprised to find it so dark he could scarcely distinguish the dancers.  The lights had been lowered.  If the dance had been violent and strange before this procedure, it was now a riot.  In the semi-darkness the dancers cut loose.  The paper strings had been loosened and had fallen down to become tangled with the flying feet and legs.  Confetti swarmed like dark snowdrops in the hot air.  Lane actually smelled the heat of bodies—­a strangely stirring and yet noxious sensation.  A rushing, murmuring, shrill sound—­voices, laughter, cries, and the sliding of feet and brushing of gowns—­filled