Philip’s heart was pounding like an engine.  He knew that she was talking about him now, and he knew that she had cried out when he had spoken Peter God’s name.  He forgot Barrow as he looked at her.  She was exquisite, even with that gray pallor that had come so suddenly into her cheeks.  She was not young, as the age of youth is measured.  Perhaps she was thirty, or thirty-two, or thirty-five.  If some one had asked Philip to describe her, he would have said simply that she was glorious.  Yet her entrance had caused no stir.  Few had looked at her until she had uttered that sharp cry.  There were a score of women under the brilliantly lighted chandeliers possessed of more spectacular beauty, Barrow had partly turned in his seat, and now, with careful breeding, he faced his companion again.

“Do you know her?” Philip asked.

Barrow shook his head.

“No.”  Then he added:  “Did you see what made her cry out like that?”

“I believe so,” said Philip, and he turned purposely so that the four people at the next table could hear him.  “I think she twisted her ankle.  It’s an occasional penance the women make for wearing these high-heeled shoes, you know.”

He looked at her again.  Her form was bent toward the white-haired man who was with her.  The man was staring straight over at Philip, a strange searching look in his face as he listened to what she was saying.  He seemed to question Philip through the short distance that separated them.  And then the woman turned her head slowly, and once more Philip met her eyes squarely—­deep, dark, glowing eyes that thrilled him to the quick of his soul.  He did not try to understand what he saw in them.  Before he turned his glance to Barrow he saw that color had swept back into her face; her lips were parted; he knew that she was struggling to suppress a tremendous emotion.

Barrow was looking at him curiously—­and Philip went on with his story of Peter God.  He told it in a lower voice.  Not until he had finished did he look again in the direction of the other table.  The woman had changed her position slightly, so that he could not see her face.  The uptilt of her hat revealed to him the warm soft glow of shining coils of brown hair.  He was sure that her escort was keeping watch of his movements.

Suddenly Barrow drew his attention to a man sitting alone a dozen tables from them.

“There’s DeVoe, one of the Amalgamated chiefs,” he said.  “He has almost finished, and I want to speak to him before he leaves.  Will you excuse me a minute—­or will you come along and meet him?”

“I’ll wait,” said Philip.

Ten seconds later, the woman’s white-haired escort was on his feet.  He came to Philip’s table, and seated himself casually in Barrow’s chair, as though Philip were an old friend with whom he had come to chat for a moment.

“I beg your pardon for the imposition which I am laying upon you,” he said in a low, quiet voice.  “I am Colonel McCloud.  The lady with me is my daughter.  And you, I believe, are a gentleman.  If I were not sure of that, I should not have taken advantage of your friend’s temporary absence.  You heard my daughter cry out a few moments ago?  You observed that she was—­disturbed?”