But the time for conjecture was over.  The curtains were drawn aside, and Hugh sat down at the piano and began to play a seductive, sensuous accompaniment.  Then through a crimson curtain at the rear Pearl flashed in as if blown by the mountain wind.  The chrysalis had cast aside its shell and this tropical butterfly had emerged.  Her skirts were of yellow satin, and from a black bodice her beautiful bare shoulders rose half revealed and half concealed by her rose-wreathed, white manton de Manila.  In her black, shining hair, just over one ear, was a bunch of scarlet, artificial blossoms.

She floated about the floor for a moment or two like a thistle-down blown hither and thither by the caprice of the wind, scarcely seeming to touch the ground, upborne by the music-tide.  Throughout her career she was always at her best when she took those first few moments about the stage and waited for her inspiration.

Then she drifted nearer to Hughie and murmured, “The Tango.”  He changed his tempo immediately, and almost without a pause of transition she began that provocative measure—­the dance of desire.  Thrilling with the joy of expressing her love, her beautiful new love for Seagreave, through her art, she danced with a verve, an abandon, a more spontaneous impulse than she had ever shown before.  The Tango!  She made it a thing of alluring advances, of stinging repulses, of sudden, fascinating withdrawals and exquisite ardors.

When the applause had finally died down, the hall was still noisy with a babel of voices; those who could, moved about in the crowded space, and little groups formed and broke up.  Bob Flick, speaking to this or that acquaintance, felt some one touch him lightly on the arm, and turned suddenly to see Hanson standing beside him.

“Hello, Flick,” with a sort of swaggering bravado, “our old friend, the Black Pearl, is going some to-night, ain’t she?”

“I don’t know you,” drawled Flick, the liquid Southern intonations of his voice softened until they were almost silky, “and,” his hand shot back to his hip with an almost unbelievable rapidity, “I’ll give you just three minutes to apologize for mentioning Miss Gallito’s name, for speaking to me, and for being here at all.”

Hanson’s face had turned a sickly white, more with anger than fear.  “Considering the argument you stand ready to offer,” he said, “there’s nothing to do but to apologize my humblest on all three counts.  I had hoped that you’d remember me and be willing to introduce me to your friend.”  He turned a cynical and evil glance upon Seagreave, who was talking to some one a few feet away.  “But since you won’t, I’ll go, just adding that you and your friend, there, are likely to meet me soon again.”

There was a touch of scorn in Flick’s faint smile.  “The three minutes are up,” he said, and without a word Hanson turned and sought his seat.

The curtains parted now and Hugh again sat down to the piano, but his music had changed; it was no longer sensuous and provocative, but strange, and curiously disturbing, with a peculiar, recurring, monotonous beat.