Claire Standish had sought to do as her brother had wished,and to forget, in the carefree life of the White City, thehappenings she had been through. Dutifully she had come toMiami with him. Dutifully, for the past three days, she hadjoined him in such gayeties as he had suggested. Dutifully,to-night, she had come with him to this dance. And all thetime her heart had been as weighty as lead.

Now, getting rid of her partner on some pretext, she had goneout into the softly illumined gardens to be alone with theyearning and heartache she could not shake off. Then, fearinglest Milo, or some other of the men she really knew, might come insearch of her and wonder at her desire to mope alone under thestars, she had turned back to the hotel.

As she mounted the last stair to the veranda, a man in dinnerclothes stepped forward from one of the porch's great yellowpillars, and advanced to meet her.

"There's a corner table at the Cafe de la Paix, in Paris," hegreeted her, striving to control his voice and to speaklightly, "that every one on earth must pass by, sooner orlater. The front veranda of the Royal Palm is like that.Soon or late, everybody crosses it. When I got back thisafternoon, I heard you had left home and that you weresomewhere in Miami. I couldn't find you. So I came here--andwaited."

Claire had halted, at first sound of Gavin Brice's pleasantlyslow voice, and she stood facing him, wide-eyed and pale, herbreath failing.

"I had to go to Washington to make my report," exclaimed he,speaking low and rapid. "I came back to you by the first trainI could catch. Didn't you know I would?"

"Yes," she breathed, her gaze still lost inside his. "Yes. I--Iknew."