He never knew quite how long he sat on there, but suddenly he started up with the feeling that he had been wasting valuable time. He hurried away, impelled in a certain direction almost in spite of himself.

As he came out into the lane he had a strange feeling of unreality. Magic—magic and moonlight! And two figures coming towards him …

Oranoff in his Harlequin dress. So he thought at first. Then, as they passed him, he knew his mistake. That lithe swaying figure belonged to one person only—Mr Quin …

They went on down the lane—their feet light as though they were treading on air. Mr Quin turned his head and looked back, and Mr Satterthwaite had a shock, for it was not the face of Mr Quin as he had ever seen it before. It was the face of a stranger—no, not quite a stranger. Ah! he had it now, it was the face of John Denman as it might have looked before life went too well with him. Eager, adventurous, the face at once of a boy and a lover …

Her laugh floated down to him, clear and happy … He looked after them and saw in the distance the lights of a little cottage. He gazed after them like a man in a dream.

He was rudely awakened by a hand that fell on his shoulder and he was jerked round to face Sergius Oranoff. The man looked white and distracted.

‘Where is she? Where is she? She promised—and she has not come.’

‘Madam has just gone up the lane—alone.’

It was Mrs Denman’s maid who spoke from the shadow of the door behind them. She had been waiting with her mistress’s wraps.

‘I was standing here and saw her pass,’ she added.

Mr Satterthwaite threw one harsh word at her.

‘Alone? Alone, did you say?’

The maid’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘Yes, sir. Didn’t you see her off?’

Mr Satterthwaite clutched at Oranoff.

‘Quickly,’ he muttered. ‘I’m—I’m afraid.’

They hurried down the lane together, the Russian talking in quick disjointed sentences.

‘She is a wonderful creature. Ah! how she danced tonight. And that friend of yours. Who is he? Ah! but he is wonderful—unique. In the old days, when she danced the Columbine of Rimsky Korsakoff, she never found the perfect Harlequin. Mordoff, Kassnine—none of them were quite perfect. She had her own little fancy. She told me of it once. Always she danced with a dream Harlequin—a man who was not really there. It was Harlequin himself, she said, who came to dance with her. It was that fancy of hers that made her Columbine so wonderful.’

Mr Satterthwaite nodded. There was only one thought in his head.

‘Hurry,’ he said. ‘We must be in time. Oh! we must be in time.’