All this is unimportant except that it leads up inevitably to what happened later. I might not have gone out with Elsie Murray later if I had not sat beside Dorothy Cecil at dinner.

I don’t know. That’s probably beclouding the issue. I did sit beside Miss Cecil, and I did go out with Elsie.

Dorothy Cecil was looking at me as I stood there. I went to her at once. “I’m Brett Halliday. Do you mind if I sit here?”

She smiled and said, “I recognized that black eye-patch from pictures I’ve seen. I’d love to have you sit beside me.”

She had a low, vibrant voice. I looked at her squarely and said, “My, God! SERGEANT DEATH! Soporific candles made from the rendered fat of newborn babies.”

Her face lit up and her eyes twinkled happily. “Don’t tell me you’ve actually read my books?”

“Every one I could get hold of. Which I’ll bet is more than you can say of mine.”

She cupped her chin in her left palm and looked thoughtful. “THE PRIVATE PRACTICE OF MICHAEL SHAYNE. Was that the first?”

So, then we were off. On the favorite topic of all authors-our own books. She had read most of the Shaynes, and discussed them intelligently. But Bob Arthur sat on her right and he talked to her for a time while dinner was being served. I discussed old Denver friends with Raffelock. But all the time I was acutely conscious of Dorothy Cecil on the other side of me. I was alone in New York, and the night lay ahead. So far as I could judge she was alone at the Poe dinner also.

There was no more than that. Just the delightful possibility of further acquaintance with a charming woman. Nothing one would try to force. Something that might happen if the Gods were good.