‘Or this calendar?’

‘The flight of time doesn’t interest me.’

‘Then what can I tempt you with?’

‘Something that is really your own—a kiss.’

‘My dear,’ said Marion, trembling, ‘you needn’t have asked for.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And to prove I don’t want something for nothing, here is your favour.’

He felt in his pocket. Marion saw a dark silvery gleam; she held her hand out for the gift.

It was a revolver.

‘What am I to do with this?’ she asked.

‘You are the best judge of that,’ he replied. ‘Only one cartridge has been used.’

Without taking her eyes from his face she laid down the revolver among the bric-à-brac on the table by her side.

‘And now your gift to me.’

‘But what about our masks?’ said Marion.

‘Take yours off,’ he commanded.

‘Mine doesn’t matter,’ said Marion, removing as she spoke the silken visor. ‘But you are wearing an entirely false face.’

‘Do you know why?’ he asked, gazing at her fixedly through the slits in the mask.

She didn’t answer.

‘I was always an empty-headed fellow,’ he went on, tapping the waxed covering with his gloved forefinger, so that it gave out a wooden hollow sound—‘there’s nothing much behind this. No brains to speak of, I mean. Less than I used to have, in fact.’

Marion stared at him in horror.

‘Would you like to see? Would you like to look right into my mind?’

‘No! No!’ she cried wildly.

‘But I think you ought to,’ he said, coming a step nearer and raising his hands to his head.

‘Have you seen Marion?’ said Jane Manning to her husband. ‘I’ve a notion she hasn’t been enjoying herself. This was in a sense her party, you know. We made a mistake to give her Tommy Cardew as a partner; he doesn’t carry heavy enough guns for her.’

‘Why, does she want shooting?’ inquired her husband.

‘Idiot! But I could see they didn’t get on. I wonder where she’s got to—I’m afraid she may be bored.’

‘Perhaps she’s having a quiet talk with a howitzer,’ her husband suggested.

Jane ignored him. ‘Darling, it’s nearly twelve. Run into the ante-room and fetch her; I don’t want her to miss the final figure.’

In a few seconds he returned. ‘Not there,’ he said. ‘Not there, my child. Sunk by a twelve-inch shell, probably.’

‘She may be sitting out in the corridor.’

‘Hardly, after a direct hit.’

‘Well, look.’

They went away and returned with blank faces. The guests were standing about talking; the members of the band, their hands ready on their instruments, looked up inquiringly.

‘We shall have to begin without her,’ Mrs. Manning reluctantly decided. ‘We shan’t have time to finish as it is.’

The hands of the clock showed five minutes to twelve.

The band played as though inspired, and many said afterwards that the cotillon never got really going, properly warmed up, till those last five minutes. All the fun of the evening seemed to come to a head, as though the spirit of the dance, mistrustful of its latter-day devotees, had withheld its benison till the final moments. Everyone was too excited to notice, as they whirled past that the butler was standing in one of the doorways with a white and anxious face. Even Mrs. Manning, when at last she saw him, called out cheerfully, almost without pausing for an answer:

‘Well, Jackson, everything all right, I hope?’

‘Can I speak to you a moment, Madam?’ he said. ‘Or perhaps Mr. Manning would be better.’

Mrs. Manning’s heart sank. Did he want to leave?

‘Oh, I expect I shall do, shan’t I? I hope it’s nothing serious.’

‘I’m afraid it is, Madam, very serious.’

‘All right, I’ll come.’ She followed him on to the landing.

A minute later her husband saw her threading her way towards him.

‘Jack! Just a moment.’

He was dancing and affected not to hear. His partner’s eyes looked surprised and almost resentful, Mrs. Manning thought; but she persisted none the less.

‘I know I’m a bore and I’m sorry, but I really can’t help myself.’

This brought them to a stand.

‘Why, Jane, has the boiler burst?’

‘No, it’s more serious than that, Jack,’ she said, as he disengaged himself from his partner with an apology. ‘There’s been a dreadful accident or something at the Chillingworths’. That guest of theirs, do you remember, whom they were to have brought and didn’t——’

‘Yes, he stayed behind with a headache—rotten excuse—’

‘Well, he’s shot himself.’

‘Good God! When?’

‘They found him half an hour ago, apparently, but they couldn’t telephone because the machine was out of order, and had to send.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes, he blew his brains out.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

‘The man told me. He was called Chichester.’

They were standing at the side of the room, partly to avoid the dancers, partly to be out of earshot. The latter consideration need not have troubled them, however. The band, which for some time past had been playing nineteenth-century waltzes, now burst into the strains of John Peel. There was a tremendous sense of excitement and climax. The dancers galloped by at break-neck speed; the band played fortissimo; the volume of sound was terrific. But above the din—the music, the laughter and the thud of feet—they could just hear the clock striking twelve.

Jack Manning looked doubtfully at his wife.’Should I go and tell Chillingworth now? What do you think?’

‘Perhaps you’d better—it seems so heartless not to. Break it to him as gently as you can, and don’t let the others know if you can help it.’

Jack Manning’s task was neither easy nor agreeable, and he was a born bungler. Despairing of making himself heard, he raised his hand and cried out, ‘Wait a moment!’ Some of the company stood still and, imagining it was a signal to take off their masks, began to do so; others went on dancing; others stopped and stared. He was the centre of attention; and before he had got his message fairly delivered, it had reached other ears than those for which it was intended. An excited whispering went round the room: ‘What is it? What is it?’ Men and women stood about with their masks in their hands, and faces blanker than before they were uncovered. Others looked terrified and incredulous. A woman came up to Jane Manning and said:

‘What a dreadful thing for Marion Lane.’

‘Why?’ Jane asked.

‘Didn’t you know? She and Harry Chichester were the greatest friends. At one time it was thought—’

‘I live out of the world, I had no idea,’ said Jane quickly. Even in the presence of calamity, she felt a pang that her friend had not confided in her.

Her interlocutor persisted: ‘It was talked about a great deal. Some people said—you know how they chatter—that she didn’t treat him quite fairly. I hate to make myself a busybody, Mrs. Manning, but I do think you ought to tell her; she ought to be prepared.’

‘But I don’t know where she is!’ cried Jane, from whose mind all thought of her friend had been banished. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘Not since the sheet incident.’

‘Nor have I.’

Nor, it seemed, had anyone. Disturbed by this new misadventure far more than its trivial nature seemed to warrant, Jane hastened in turn to such of her guests as might be able to enlighten her as to Marion’s whereabouts. Some of them greeted her inquiry with a lift of the eyebrows but none of them could help her in her quest. Nor could she persuade them to take much interest in it. They seemed to have forgotten that they were at a party, and owed a duty of responsiveness to their hostess. Their eyes did not light up when she came near. One and all they were discussing the suicide, and suggesting its possible motive. The room rustled with their whispering, with the soft hissing sound of ‘Chichester’ and the succeeding ‘Hush!’ which was meant to stifle but only multiplied and prolonged it. Jane felt that she must scream.