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 and Baretta's name, "George." "Hello, George". . . "How's the boy?" . . . She heard a voice, undoubtedly Baretta's, replying cordially, patronizingly, without the slightest quaver of uneasiness. Her heart pounded violently, and her hands held tight to the edge of the table upon which she pulled in physical opposition to the almost unconquerable temptation to turn in her chair.

"Here," ejaculated Oliver, sliding his cigarette case across to her; she ignored it, but watched him elaborately light a cigarette for himself, exhaling much smoke and puffing out his cheeks jovially.

"Good evening," Baretta's voice greeted them with agreeable impersonal accents.

"Good evening," replied Oliver hastily, his cheeks collapsing; and Joan Daisy gazed up at a tall, slender man with gray hair. He had a big, bold nose and wide, unpleasant mouth, a bony chin and small, dark eyes; his face was sallow and splotched and Joan Daisy saw that some of his hair was jet black and the rest pure white. She could not possibly confuse him with Ket, and she had no feeling of having seen him before.

"Good evening," he repeated directly to her. She nodded in reply, holding her lips pressed tight upon her pent up breath; Baretta's little eyes looked at her lips and swept down her figure. He smiled and went on.

She relaxed, feeling only relief at first. She did not know Baretta; he did not know her, she thought; the night would come to nothing. She glanced across at Oliver and saw that, if he was disappointed, he was relieved, too; she had no need to tell him that she had failed at the identification.

"All right," Oliver encouraged her, having lost sight of Baretta, whom she kept in view, over Oliver's shoulder, as the host proceeded along the rows of tables of his guests. His back was turned, but when he was about