him with her fists. He could not hold her still. She was
strong, strong as some young lioness. They were swaying around the
room, now this way, new that--and now through the portieres into the
salon. She made no cry--how could she cry?--he strangled the cries
unborn upon her lips with his kisses! Ah, he had her now--she was
passive at last--her head was bent far back in his arms. Yes,
now--now! To feel the life, the heart throb, the pulse of that lithe
form against his own--to hold his lips to hers in a kiss long as all
eternity--to--

And then in a numbed, blank way he was standing back and staring at
her. Footsteps, laughter, voices were coming from the street outside,
coming up the steps--and, where it had seemed that her strength was
gone, in a paroxysm of terror, of desperation, she had torn herself
away from him. And now--yes--her face was as white as death itself.
What made it like that? What had happened? He passed his hand dazedly
across his eyes.

"Quick! That door!" she breathed frantically. "They must not find it
_locked_!" She snatched up her outer wraps, slipped them on, and, with
a most marvellous display of composure, assumed a languid attitude in a
chair. Outwardly, Myrna Bliss was quite calm and undisturbed again.
"Quick! The door--_quick_!" she whispered.

The door! Some one was coming! Yes, of course! His brain was
reeling, stupefied. The door! He fumbled in his pocket for the key,
and in a mechanical way turned it in the lock. And then they were
trooping into the salon, a dozen of them, men and women.

"Wasn't it a charming idea!" some one exclaimed in effusive greeting.
"But the credit is all Myrna's, of course. We've come, you know, to--"

Jean did not hear any more. With a start, he raised his head and
glanced down the room. Myrna's idea--this! A little twisted smile of
understanding came to Jean's lips. Self-possessed, animated, she was
already the centre of a group where everybody was talking at once.

And then Paul Valmain's pale, aristocratic, esthetic face came before
him. The man was bowing, murmuring polite conventionalities; only
somehow the man's eyes, instead of meeting his, seemed to be set with
peculiar fixedness upon some object. Automatically, Jean followed
their direction with his own--to his own hand hanging at his side.

The door key was still clasped in his fingers!

-- III --

IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT

The temptation was very great