He was ushered into the long room with its Eastern setting which he knew so well. Mirelle was lying on the divan, supported by an incredible number of cushions, all in varying shades of amber, to harmonise with the yellow ochre of her complexion. The dancer was a beautifully made woman, and if her face, beneath its mask of yellow, was in truth somewhat haggard, it had a bizarre charm of its own, and her orange lips smiled invitingly at Derek Kettering.

He kissed her, and flung himself into a chair.

“What have you been doing with yourself? Just got up, I suppose?”

The orange mouth widened into a long smile.

“No,” said the dancer. “I have been at work.”

She flung out a long, pale hand towards the piano, which was littered with untidy music scores.

“Ambrose has been here. He has been playing me the new Opera.”