A social event of some sort was in progress.  From some concealed place came the music of a string orchestra.  Every window of the great pile was open for ventilation, and Ben could hear and see almost as plainly as the guests themselves.  For a time, deep, insistent, throbbing in measured beat, came the drone of the ’cello, the wail of the clarionet, and, faintly audible beneath, the rustle of moving feet.  Then the music ceased; and a few seconds later a throng of heated dancers swarmed through the open doorway to the surrounding veranda, and simultaneously a chatter broke forth.  Fans, like gigantic butterfly wings, vibrated to and fro.  Skilful waiters, in black and white, glanced in and out.  Laughter, thoughtless and care-free, mingled in the general scene.

The music still, Ben Blair was about to move on, when suddenly a man and a girl in the shadow of a window on the second floor caught and held his attention.  As far as he could see, they were alone.  Evidently one or the other of them knew the house intimately, and had deliberately sought the place.  From the veranda beneath, the flow of talk continued uninterruptedly; but they gave it no attention.  The spectator could distinctly see the man as he leaned back in the light and spoke earnestly.  At times he gesticulated with rapid passionate motions, such as one unconsciously uses when deeply absorbed.  Now and again, with the bodily motions that we have learned to connect with the French, his shoulders were shrugged expressively.  He was obviously talking against time; for his every motion showed intense concentration.  No spectator could have mistaken the nature of his speech.  Passion supreme, abandon absolute, were here personified.  As he spoke, he gradually leaned farther forward toward the woman who listened.  His face was no longer in the light.  Suddenly, at first low, as though coming from a distance, increasing gradually until it throbbed into the steady beat of a waltz, the music recommenced.  It was the signal for action and for throwing off restraint.  The man leaned forward; his arm stretched out and closed about the figure of the woman.  His face pressed forward to meet hers, again and again.

Not Ben alone, but a half-dozen other spectators had watched the scene.  An overdressed girl among the number tittered at the sight.

But Ben scarcely noticed.  With the strength of insulted womanhood, the girl had broken free, and now stood up full in the light.  One look she gave to the man, a look which should have withered him with its scorn; then, gathering her skirts, she almost ran from the room.

Only a few seconds had the girl’s face been clear of the shadow; yet it had been long enough to permit recognition, and instantly liquid fire flowed in the veins of Benjamin Blair.  His breath came quick and short as that of a runner passing under the wire, and his great jaw set.  The woman he had seen was Florence Baker.

With one motion he was upon the terrace leading toward the house.  Another second, and he would have been well upon his way, when a hand grasped him from behind and drew him back.  With a half-articulated imprecation Ben turned—­and stood fronting Scotty Baker.  The Englishman’s face was very white.  Behind the compound lenses his eyes glowed in a way Ben had not thought possible; but his voice was steady when he spoke.