The more I reflected, the greater mystery appeared to surround my pretty
acquaintance of that well-remembered evening.
Three days went by, and, truth to tell, I remained in an uncertain,
undecided mood. For a year past I had been the closest friend and
confidant of Muriel Moore, but not her lover. The words of love I had
spoken had been merely in jest, although I could not disguise from
myself that she regarded me as something more than a mere acquaintance.
Yet the strange, half-tragic beauty of Aline Cloud was undeniable.
Sometimes I felt half-inclined to write to her and endeavour to again
see her, but each time I thought of her, visions of Muriel rose before
me, and I recollected that I admired her with an admiration that was
really akin to love.
On the third evening I looked in at the St Stephen's Club, finding
Roddy stretched in one of the morocco-covered chairs in the
smoking-room, with a long whisky and soda on the table by his side.
"Hullo!" he cried gaily, as I advanced, "where did you get to the other
night?"
"No, old fellow," I answered, sinking into a chair near him; "ask
yourself that question. You slipped away so very quickly that I thought
you'd met some creditor or other."
"Well," he answered, after a pause, "I did see somebody I didn't want to
meet."
"A man?" I asked, for my old chum had but few secrets from me.
"No; a woman."