He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. He passed his arm under that of the constable, and drew him aside. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. The Palazzo was unlike anything she had ever known. Her father had determined on a new line. “I am so sorry. She heard him come in; the light burned on. But—Miss Pellissier!” “Well?” “Are you quite sure that you want us this evening? Wouldn’t you rather be alone? Just say the word, and we’ll clear out like a shot. “You see, her sister is married to Ferringhall, isn’t she? and she herself must be drawing no end of a good screw here. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. “Please call me Carol.
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