The broad veranda, which faced the avenue and terminated at the corner of the house in a huge circle, not unlike an open conservatory, afforded a secluded and comparatively cool retreat for the diners later in the evening.  Banked along the rails were the rarest of tropical plants; shaded incandescent lamps sent their glow from somewhere among the palms, and there was a suggestion of fairy-land in the scene.  If Quentin had a purpose in being particularly assiduous in his attentions to Mlle. Gaudelet, he did not suspect that he was making an implacable foe of Henri de Cartier, the husband of another very charming young woman.  Unaccustomed to the intrigues of Paris, and certainly not aware that Brussels copied the fashions of her bigger sister across the border in more ways than one, he could not be expected to know that de Cartier loved not his wife and did love the pretty Louise.  Nor could his pride have been convinced that the young woman at his side was enjoying the tete-a-tete chiefly because de Cartier was fiercely cursing the misfortune which had thrown this new element into conflict.  It may be unnecessary to say that Mrs. Garrison was delighted with the unmistakable signs of admiration manifested by the two young people.

It was late when Quentin reluctantly arose to make his adieux.  He had finished acknowledging the somewhat effusive invitations to the houses of his new acquaintances, and was standing near Dorothy, directly in front of a tall bank of palms.  From one point of view this collection of plants looked like a dense jungle, so thickly were they placed on the porch at its darkest end.  The light from a drawing-room window shone across the front of the green mass, but did not penetrate the recess near the porch rail.  He was taking advantage of a very brief opportunity, while others were moving away, to tell her that Mile.  Louise was fascinating, when her hand suddenly clasped his arm and she whispered: 

“Phil, there is a man behind those palms.”  His figure straightened, but he did not look around.

“Nonsense, Dorothy.  How could a man get—­” he began, in a very low tone.

“I saw the leaves move, and just now I saw a foot near the rail.  Be careful, for heaven’s sake, but look for yourself; he is near the window.”

Like statues they stood, she rigid under the strain, but brave enough and cool enough to maintain a remarkable composure.  She felt the muscle of his forearm contract, and there swept over her a strange dread.  His eyes sought the spot indicated in a perfectly natural manner, and there was no evidence of perturbation in his gaze or posture.  The foot of a man was dimly discernible in the shadow, protruding from behind a great earthen jar.  Without a word he led her across the porch to where the others stood.

“Good-night, Mrs. Garrison,” he said, calmly, taking the hand she proffered.  Dorothy, now trembling like a leaf, looked on in mute surprise.  Did he mean to depart calmly, with the knowledge that they needed his protection?  “Good-night, Miss Garrison.  I trust I shall see you soon.”  Then, in a lower tone:  “Get the people around the corner here, and not a word to them.”