A half hour later Pancha, emerging from the alley that led to the
Albion's stage door, saw a tall, familiar shape approach from the
shadows. Her heart gave a jump, and as her hand was enfolded in a
strong, possessive grasp, she could not control the sudden quickening of
her breath.

"Oh, it's you! Gee, how you scared me," she said, to account for it.

He squeezed the hand, murmuring apologies, his vanity gratified, for he
knew no man at the stage door would ever scare Pancha.

As it was so fine a night he suggested that she walk back to the hotel
and let him escort her, to which, with a glance at the moon, and a sniff
of the mellow air, she agreed.

So they fared forth, two dark figures, choosing quieter streets than
those she usually trod, the tapping of her high heels falling with a
smart regularity on the stillness held between the silver-washed walls.

They were rather silent, conversation broken by periods when their
mingled footfalls beat clear on the large, enfolding mutter of the city
sinking to sleep. It was his fault; heretofore he had been the leader,
conducting her by a crafty discursiveness toward those confidences she so
resolutely withheld. But tonight he did not want to talk, trailing lazy
steps beside her, casting thoughtful glances upward at the vast,
illumined sky. It made her nervous; there was something of a deep,
disturbing intimacy about it; not a sweet and soothing intimacy, but
portentous and agitating. She tried to be herself, laid about for bright
things to say and found she could pump up no defiant buoyancy, her tongue
clogged, her spirit oppressed by a disintegrating inner distress. It did