as not that he stared exactly, the man's whole figure
was too blatantly bored for that, but there was something in their
expression which made her look and look again. At their sixth exchange
of glances the man smiled, or so it seemed to Joan, but the next moment
his face was sombre again. None the less there had been something in her
idea, for before the next couple of dancers swung past her the man had
moved from the shadow of his curtain and was standing near her.

"Don't think it is awful impudence on my part," he said, "but are you
here all alone?"

Now there was just something in his voice that, as far as most women
were concerned would sweep away all barriers. He spoke, in short, like a
gentleman. Joan looked up at him.

"Yes," she admitted; she caught her breath on a little laugh. "I am here
as a reporter, you know; it is business and pleasure combined."

Once more his eyes made her uncomfortable and she dropped hers quickly.

"That is strange," said the man gravely, "for I am a reporter too."

He was certainly not speaking the truth. Joan was not inclined to
believe that Fleet Street had ever produced reporters the least like her
companion. Still, what did it matter? just for this evening she would
throw aside convention and have a good time.

"How awfully fortunate," she answered, "because you will be able to help
me. I am new to the game."

"Well then," he suggested, "let us dance to the finish of this waltz and
I will point out a few of the celebrities as we pass them."

Just for a second Joan hesitated, but her feet were tingling to be
dancing.

"Couldn't we do it better standing here?" she parried.

"No," he assured her, "we could not do it at all unless we dance;
movement helps my memory."

He was a most perfect dancer. No one, so numberless women would have
told Joan, could hold you just as Robert Landon did, steer you untouched
through the most crowded ballroom as he did, make himself and you, for
the time being, seem part and parcel of the swaying tune, the strange
enchantment of a waltz.

Joan was flushed and a little breathless at the close; they had danced
until the last notes died on the air, and she had forgotten her mission,
the celebrities, everything, indeed, except the dance and its
bewildering melody. The man looked down at her as she stood beside him,
an eager light awake in his eyes. His voice, however, was cool and
friendly.

"You dance much too well to be a reporter," he