ents about the
stage and waited for her inspiration.

Then she drifted nearer to Hughie and murmured, "The Tango." He changed
his tempo immediately, and almost without a pause of transition she
began that provocative measure--the dance of desire. Thrilling with the
joy of expressing her love, her beautiful new love for Seagreave,
through her art, she danced with a verve, an abandon, a more spontaneous
impulse than she had ever shown before. The Tango! She made it a thing
of alluring advances, of stinging repulses, of sudden, fascinating
withdrawals and exquisite ardors.

When the applause had finally died down, the hall was still noisy with a
babel of voices; those who could, moved about in the crowded space, and
little groups formed and broke up. Bob Flick, speaking to this or that
acquaintance, felt some one touch him lightly on the arm, and turned
suddenly to see Hanson standing beside him.

"Hello, Flick," with a sort of swaggering bravado, "our old friend, the
Black Pearl, is going some to-night, ain't she?"

"I don't know you," drawled Flick, the liquid Southern intonations of
his voice softened until they were almost silky, "and," his hand shot
back to his hip with an almost unbelievable rapidity, "I'll give you
just three minutes to apologize for mentioning Miss Gallito's name, for
speaking to me, and for being here at all."

Hanson's face had turned a sickly white, more with anger than fear.
"Considering the argument you stand ready to offer," he said, "there's
nothing to do but to apologize my humblest on all three counts. I had
hoped that you'd remember me and be willing to introduce me to your
friend." He turned a cynical and evil glance upon Seagreave, who was
talking to some one a few feet away. "But since you won't, I'll go, just
adding that you and your friend, there, are likely to meet me soon
again."

There was a touch of scorn in Flick's faint smile. "The three minutes
are up," he said, and without a word Hanson turned and sought his seat.

The curtains parted now and Hugh again sat down to the piano, but his
music had changed; it was no longer sensuous and provocative, but
strange, and curiously disturbing, with a peculiar, recurring,
monotonous beat.

It was the voice of the desert full of a savage exultation in its own
loneliness and forsaken isolation, and through it rang a cry of deep,
disdainful triumph, as if it said: "All puny races of men, come to me;
embroider my vast surfaces with