hotel, with its fine suites of rooms and the most competent staff in Europe, made little or nothing of it. Half-a-dozen big dances had taken place there without disturbing the thousand or so of guests who passed every night under that magnificent roof in Piccadilly.
Paul Wendover looked, in his six-feet of splendid manhood and immaculate evening dress, a typical, well-groomed Englishman, who was out for an evening of simple pleasure. He strolled through the reception rooms towards the ballroom with the air of a man who has nothing on his mind, and who is bent entirely on looking for casual acquaintances. And certainly, in the ordinary way, the Associated Arts Club dance promised to be amusing. To begin with, it was emphatically a Bohemian function of the most brilliant kind, and everybody connected with literature and the stage would probably be present. Just for a moment Wendover stood there, regarding the ebb and flow of beautifully-dressed women and well-known men, and then he thrilled and stiffened to his fingertips as his eye encountered a slim figure in scarlet—the figure of a tall, graceful girl, brilliantly fair and dazzling, her head crowned with great masses of orange-red hair, twisted like a coronet about her brows.
It was the girl that Wendover had seen in Fleet-street that afternoon. He knew that he could not possibly be mistaken. And yet there was nothing about her now to suggest a girl who is struggling to keep her head above the social waters. She seemed to stand out from the rest of the crowd like a thing apart. It wasn’t altogether that she was more outstandingly beautiful than many other exquisitely-dressed women there, but there was about her some intangible charm and distinction that seemed to lift her, in Wendover’s eyes at least, far and away above the rest of them.
To begin with, it seemed to him that she looked as no Englishwoman could have done. And she was all the more attractive because the man she was with was not in the least distinguished. He was just an ordinary Englishman, sandy-haired and freckled, a man with whom, as a matter of fact, he had been at school.
But Wendover had no eyes just then for Sir Peter Cavendish; he was looking at the girl to the exclusion of everything else. She seemed to float round the room with the nameless grace and abandon of a beautiful scarlet butterfly. And, against the deep red of her dress, and the dazzling whiteness of her arms and neck, that marvellous hair of hers stood out like a dart of flame. Then, presently, the music ceased, and the girl and her partner went back to their seats. Wendover saw his acquaintance rise presently, and wander away in the direction of the smoking-room. He stopped just for a moment as Wendover accosted him.
“Who is the Lady in Scarlet?” he asked, carelessly. “Not English, I feel sure.”
“Oh, no,” Cavendish replied. “French, I think. Very attractive, but not quite my style. I was introduced to her by Vera Bentley, of the Frivolity, so, of course, I had to ask her for a dance. Like a good many other striking looking girls, she is dull, with little to say for herself.”
Wendover elevated his eyebrows sardonically. Cavendish was by no means intellectual, and his limits were bounded by horses and golf clubs. Wendover knew he was mistaken. He could read a fine intelligence and a beautiful intellect in that lovely face and those dark, liquid eyes. Still, it was futile to argue the matter out with a man like Cavendish.
“You surprise me,” he said. “But one never can tell. By the way, what is the lady’s name?”
“Zena Corroda, the daughter of the scientific johnny who made lots of money out of scientific experiments. One of those birds who are born to put the world right. Down on chaps with money, and all that. They say that the old cove was a bit of an anarchist in his way.”
Wendover started slightly. He was on the track of the mystery now, for the things that Cavendish spoke of vaguely were part of a big, open book to him. He was seeing his way more or less clearly into the heart of things. He made some excuse for shaking his loquacious acquaintance off, and made his way back into the ballroom. As a matter of fact, he was more startled and uneasily interested than he was prepared to admit. For he wanted to help the girl with the red hair, the girl who stood on the threshold of a great danger. The spirit of adventure was in his blood now, but he had something to think of besides the interests of his paper.
He was going through it all now, as he stood there nodding and smiling to passing acquaintances, but with his mind far away. He was uneasy and disturbed too, as he always was till he had got hold of the right thread, and then he would plunge into the heart of the danger with a tranquil mind and an utter disregard for his own safety.
And that the girl was in some bitter trouble he felt certain. She was seated all alone now, an utter stranger in that brilliant, frivolous, dazzling crowd, a thing apart from all the rest, and almost pathetically lonely. She sat there for some time, utterly unconscious of the fact that she was being watched, and perhaps forgetful that she was there at all, and then she looked up presently, and, like a flash, the settled melancholy in her eyes changed to abject terror.
She half started from her seat, then dropped back into it again, with pallid cheeks and parted lips, and with her hand pressed to her heart, as if some mortal pain were there. It was only for a second or two, and then she recovered herself.
But, in that instant it seemed to Wendover that he had discovered the source of the trouble. He could see a tall, thin man, clean shaven and hawk-looking, making his way round the ballroom in the direction of one of the palm-lined corridors, where a series of dimly-lighted alcoves had been arranged for the use of such of the guests as wanted to sit out a dance or two. And no sooner had the man with the hawk-like face and sinister eyes vanished down the corridor than the girl rose as if impelled by some force, and followed him.
A minute later Wendover followed in his turn. He had no excuse for doing this, he told himself; it was sheer impertinent curiosity on his part, but he rose and went. It was just at the beginning of the corridor that he overtook the girl.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but may I speak to you for a moment; Are you not Miss Zena Corroda?”
The girl turned a startled face upon him.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “but please do not detain me. There is someone, a gentleman, who has just gone along here, that I want to speak to at once. I have a message for him which must not be delayed.”
“You think he is in danger then?” Wendover asked coolly.
“Oh, yes, yes. But how do you know that? Who are you that dares to stop me in this fashion?”
“I am your friend, I think,” Paul said quietly. “In fact I know I am. Don’t think me presumptuous, but I am sure you are in trouble, and I want to help you. Have you ever heard your father speak of Mr. Paul Wendover?”
“The name seems familiar,” the girl said. “I think there was a journalist of that name–-“
“Yes, that’s right,” Wendover said eagerly, “I am the man. I came on behalf of my paper to interview your father in Berlin. You would probably have been a girl at school at that time. And now, Miss Corroda–-“
The girl looked about her like some beautiful, hunted creature, who seeks an avenue of escape.
“Oh, please don’t keep me, please,” she implored. “God knows I want a friend, for I am all alone in the world, and I feel you are sincere in what you say, for you look like an English gentleman. If you have anything more to say, will you please stay here for two or three minutes, and I will come back to you. But, please let me go now.”
Wendover drew back with a muttered apology. So far it seemed to him that he was gaining ground, and, at any rate, the girl had promised to return. He waited there, in the empty corridor for the best part of ten minutes,
