This hand, too, dropped down.

Lane did not recognize the fellow's smooth, smug face, with its tiny curled mustache and its heated swollen lines.
"Look who's here," shouted a gay, vibrant voice.

"If it isn't old Dare Lane!" That voice drew Lane's fixed gaze, and he saw a group in the far corner of the room.

One man was standing, another was sitting beside a lounge, upon which lay a young woman amid a pile of pillows.

She rose lazily, and as she slid off the lounge Lane saw her skirt come down and cover her bare knees.