Martin Ogleby and his partner were not dancing.  It was warm and they were among the lucky ones who had succeeded in getting something besides a cheque from the waiters.  Two tall glasses of ginger ale with a long curl of lemon peel sepentining through the cracked ice stood before them.

The dance had brought Dr. Harris and Marie squarely around to within a few feet of where Ogleby was sitting.  As Harris swung around she faced Ogleby in such a way that he could not avoid her, nor could she have possibly missed seeing him.

For a moment their eyes met.  Not a muscle in either face moved.  It was as if they were perfect strangers.  She turned and murmured something to her partner.  Ogleby leaned over, without the least confusion, and made a witty remark to his partner.  It was over in a minute.  The acting of both could not have been better if they had deliberately practised their parts.  What did it mean?

As the dance concluded I saw Ogleby glance hastily over in the direction of Marie.  He gave a quick smile of recognition, as much as to say “Thank you.”

It was evident now that both Dr. Harris and Marie, whoever she was, were getting ready to leave.  As they rose to move to the door, Kennedy quickly paid our own cheque, leaving the change to the waiter, and without seeming to do so we followed them.

Harris was standing near the starter with his hat off, apparently making his adieux.  Deftly Kennedy managed to slip in behind so as to be next in line for a cab.

“Walter and I will follow Harris if they separate,” he whispered to Clare Kendall.  “You follow the woman.”

The afternoon was verging toward dinner and people were literally bribing the taxicab starter.  Our own cab stood next in line behind that which Harris had called.

“I have certainly enjoyed this little glimpse of Bohemia,” commented Kennedy to Miss Kendall as we waited.  “I shouldn’t mind if detective work took me more often to afternoon dances.  There, they are going down the steps.  Here’s the cab I called.  Let me know how things turn out.  Goodbye.  Here—­chauffeur, around that way—­where that other cab is going—­the lady will tell you where to drive.”

Harris hesitated a moment as if considering whether to take a cab himself, then slowly turned and strolled down the street.

We followed, slowly also.  There was something unreal about the bright afternoon sunshine after the atmosphere of the Futurist Tea Room, where everything had been done to promote the illusion of night.

Harris walked along meditatively, crossing one street after another, not as if debating where he was going, but rather in no great hurry to get there.

Instead of going down Broadway he swerved into Seventh Avenue, then after a few blocks turned into a side street, quickened his pace, and at last dived down into a basement under a saloon.