It is an engrossing story."

"I think," said Duska suddenly, almost critically, "the first part was
so good that it was a pity to spoil it with the rest."

Senor Ribero smiled enigmatically into his wine-glass.

"I fear, senorita, that is the sad difference between fiction and
history. My tale is a true one."

"At all events," continued the girl with vigor, "he was a brave man.
That is enough to remember. I think it is better to forget the rest."

It seemed to Ribero that the glance Saxon flashed on her was almost
the glance of gratitude.

"What was his name?" she suddenly demanded.

"He called himself--at that time--George Carter," Ribero said slowly,
"but gentlemen in the unrecognized pursuits quite frequently have
occasion to change their names. Now, it is probably something else."

After the dinner had ended, while the guests fell into groups or
waited for belated carriages, Saxon found himself standing apart, near
the window. It was open on the balcony, and the man felt a sudden wish
for the quiet freshness of the outer air on his forehead. He drew back
the curtain, and stepped across the low sill, then halted as he
realized that he was not alone.

The sputtering arc-light swinging over the street made the intervening
branches and leaves of the sidewalk sycamores stand out starkly black,
like a ragged drop hung over a stage.

The May moon was only a thin sickle, and the other figure on the
darkly shadowed balcony was vaguely defined, but Saxon at once
recognized, in its lithe slenderness and grace of pose, Miss Filson.

"I didn't mean to intrude," he hastily apologized. "I didn't know you
were here."

She laughed. "Would that have frightened you?" she asked.

She was leaning on the iron rail, and the man took his place at her
side.

"I came with the Longmores," she explained, "and their machine hasn't
come yet. It's cool here--and I was thinking--"

"You weren't by any chance thinking of Babylon?" he laughed, "or
Macedonia?"

She shook her head. "Mr. Ribero's story sticks in my mind. It was so
personal, and--I guess I'm a moody creature. Anyway, I find myself
thinking of it."

There was silence for a space, except for the laughter that floated up
from the verandah below them, where a few of the members sat smoking,
and the softened clicking of ivory from the open windows of the
billiard-room. The painter's fingers, resting on the iron rail, closed
over a tendril of clambering moon-flower vine,