the excitement buzzed on, oblivious. Cynthia Meyrick turned to Minot.
"But he can't possibly get back—" she cried
"No. He can't get back. I'm sorry."
"And my wedding dress—came last night."
She stood clutching a moth-eaten tapestry in her slim white hand. In the gloom of that dull old balcony her eyes shone strangely.
"Some things aren't to be," she whispered. And"—very faintly—"others are."
A thrill shot through Minot, sharp as a pain, but glorious. What did she mean by that? What indeed but the one thing that must not happen—the thing he wanted most of all things in the world to happen—the thing he had come to San Marco to prevent. He came closer to her—and closer—the blood was pounding in his brain. Dazed, exulting, he held out his arms.
"Cynthia!" he cried.
And then suddenly behind her, on the stairs, he caught sight of a great bald head ascending through the dusk. It was an ordinary bald head, the property of Mr. Stacy in fact, but to Minot a
