ch any one that tried
to get in. Y'don't pass me--not if you was own cousin to God A'mighty!"

On they came through the crowd, all mixed up; blue overalls, and a
flapping costume whose rich, many-colored silk embroideries, flashed
like jewels. A space widened about us for them. The big garage man spun
his catch to the center of it, so that he faced the room, his back to
the orchestra.

"Wanted in, did ya? Now yer in, what about it?"

What about it, indeed? In Bill's prisoner, as he stood there twitching
ineffectually against that obstinate hold, breathing loud, shakily
settling his clothes, we had, robe for robe, cap for cap, a duplicate
Emperor of China!

And the next moment, this figure took off its mask and showed the face
of Bronson Vandeman.

Dead silence all about us; Capehart loosened his grip, abashed but still
truculent.

"Dang it all, Mr. Vandeman, if you didn't want to get mussed up, what
made you fight like that?"

"Fight?" Vandeman found his voice. "Who wouldn't? I was late, and you--"

"Bron!" After one desperate glance toward the girl up on the platform,
Ina ran to him and put a hand on his arm. "They stopped the march....
Your--the--they spoiled our joke. But have them start the music again.
You're here now. Let's go on with the march ... explain afterward."

"Good business!" Vandeman filled his chest, glanced across at Fong Ling,
and gave his social circle a rather poor version of the usual
white-toothed smile. "Jokes can wait--especially busted ones. On with
the dance; let joy be unrefined!"

Sidelong, I saw the orchestra leader's baton go up. But no music
followed. It was at Barbara the baton had pointed, at Barbara that all
the crowded company stared. Her little white dress clung to her slender
figure. I saw that now she was in the strange Buddha pose. A few flecks
of silver paper, still in her black hair, made it sparkle. But it was
Barbara's eyes that held us all spellbound. In her colorless face those
wonderful openings of black light seemed to look through and beyond us.
For an instant there was no stir. Hundreds of faces set toward her, held
by the wonder of her. Fong Ling's yellow visage moved for the first time
from its immobility with a sort of awe, a dread. And when my gaze came
back to her, I noticed that, with the dropping of her hands to join the
finger-tips, she had left, where that little, pressing fist had been, a
blur of red on the white sweater. Over me it rushed with the