THE BALL.
Never had Cleo Ballard appeared so beautiful as that night. Her eyes
shone brightly with excitement, her cheeks were a deep scarlet in hue,
and her wonderful rounded neck and arms gleamed dazzlingly white against
the black lace of her gown.
Even Sinclair roused out of his indifference to look after her in deep
admiration.
"You are looking very beautiful to-night, Cleo," he said; and ten
minutes afterwards Tom, passing with Rose Cranston on his arm, laid his
hand on Cleo's shoulder: "You are looking unnaturally beautiful, Cleo.
Anything wrong?"
"Must there necessarily be something wrong, Tom, because I am looking
well?"
Tom gave her a scrutinizing glance. In spite of her quick bantering
words there was something in the girl which made him think she was
laboring under some intense excitement, and that it was this very
excitement that was buoying her up and lending her a brilliancy that was
almost unnatural. Tom knew the reaction must come. All through the
evening he watched his cousin. She was surrounded almost constantly,
save when she danced. Later in the evening he pushed his way to her
side. She was resting after a dance.
"Cleo, you are dancing too much," he said, noting the girl's flushed
cheeks.
"One can't do anything too much, you know, Tom. I hate moderation in
anything--I hate anything lukewarm;" she was answering at random. He put
his hand on hers. They burned with fever.
"You are not well at all," he said, and then added, looking about them
anxiously: "I wonder where Sinclair is?"
The girl was possessed with a sudden anger.
"Don't ask _me_, Tom. I would be the last person to know of _his_
whereabouts." The words were very bitter.
"You know, Cleo," he answered her, soothingly, "Sinclair never did care
for this kind of thing. He is doubtless in the grounds somewhere.
Wait--I'll hunt him up." He rose from his seat, but the girl stayed him
peremptorily.
"Not for _my_ sake, Tom. Oh, I assure you, I shall not wither without
him," she said.
Tom sat down beside her again.
"Look here, little sis, don't get cynical--nor--nor untruthful. I know
very well you want to see Sinclair. I have not seen you together all
evening, and I believe it's partially that which makes you so restless.
No use trying to fool old Tom about anything."
Cleo did not argue the point any longer, and Tom passed on to the piazza
of the hotel.
Quite a lot of the guests were congregated there, some of them telling
tales, others listening to the music. Tom made his way to where he saw
Mrs. Davis standing. She was with Fanny Morton, and they seemed to be
waiting for some one.
August is the universal month for holding banquets in honor of the full
moon, in Japan, and gay parties of pleasure-seekers are to be met on the
streets at all hours of the night.
"Seen Sinclair anywhere about?" Tom asked them.
"Yes, Tom," Mrs. Davis said, nervously. "He and Walter went down the
street for a while. Something has happened. Mr. Sinclair thought some
one had got hurt. They said they would be back in a minute."
Tom waited with the two women. The dance music floated out dreamily on
the air, mingled with the incessant chatter and laughter of the guests.
Inside the brilliantly-lighted ball-room the figures of the dancers
passed back and forth before the windows.
As they sat silently listening, and watching the gay revelry, a weird
sound struck on their ears--it was the muffled beating of Buddhist
drums.
The two women and Tom rose to their feet shivering. They turned
instinctively to go indoors. Standing quite near the door by which they
entered was Cleo. Her beautiful face was flushed with fever; her eyes
were filled with terror. She was leaning forward, listening to the
faint, muffled beat of the drums.
"Some one is dead!" she said, in a piercing whisper, and threw her
beautiful bare arms high above her head as she fell prone at their feet.