Raife Remington followed the mysterious little girl, she dodging her way
through the patches of silver light and gloomy shade. He strode in a
gloomy, almost defiant manner, which implied that there was trouble
ahead, and he was determined to meet it. As they approached the Hotel
Royal they passed a group of men who appeared to regard Raife with more
than the ordinary interest that an obviously English, or perhaps
American, visitor should attract. Now in the full light of the moon,
enhanced by the brilliant street-lamps and the lights of the town
glistening here and there, they dived into a side street. The little
girl beckoned to Raife and he approached her. Then pointing to a cafe
she said: "Signora meeta you there."
The child disappeared and Raife sauntered in the direction indicated.
With an air of nonchalance he relit the cigar which had gone out. There
seemed to be an air of mystery about the transaction. He waited for a
minute or two but no one appeared, until he felt a sense of impatience
mixed with irritation. The event of the afternoon still rankled within
him, and he was simmering with a stifled rage and indignation. The
suggestion of a "trap" appeared evident, and he determined to enter the
rather dimly-lit cafe and call for a cognac. He approached the
entrance, and his hand was upon the handle of the door, when, from
apparently nowhere, the figure of a man appeared. He was dressed in a
long coat, loose at the neck, displaying a flowing necktie or cravat of
black. His wide-brimmed black hat covered his countenance, and his
general appearance suggested a denizen of the Latin quarter of Paris.
In a soft undertone he lisped: "Pardon, monsieur! mademoiselle," or as
he pronounced it, "mams'elle arrivera tout a l'heure. Vous voulez
attendre, monsieur?"
Raife's knowledge of French was superior to his knowledge of Italian,
and he turned to talk to this person who seemed to have sprung from
nowhere. His movement must have been leisurely, for when he looked
around the stranger had disappeared. The message was simple enough.
"Mademoiselle will arrive presently. Will you wait, sir?" What did all
this mystery mean? Why was a little Italian girl sent to lead him to a
place of appointment with a lady who sent a cryptic message written
without a signature. Who was the person, apparently an Apache, or from
the Latin quarter of Paris, who sprang from nowhere and disappeared into
space? As Raife contemplated these matters, the cloaked figure of a
woman came round the corner of the street.
"Ah! Sir Raife! I hope I have not kept you waiting long. I could not
get here quicker." She was out of breath, and her words came quickly.
Raife at once recognised the voice and form of Gilda. Her form was
disguised in the long rich cloak that she wore, and her face was hidden
by a large hat, from which a deep veil was draped around her face, but
her rich, low, contralto voice was evident--especially to Raife.
All there was of mistrust, of suspicion, indignation or resentment
disappeared, as she placed her hand upon his arm, looking up at him
through the folds of her deep veil. Her eyes appealed to him.
"I tried to get here before, but they wouldn't let me get away. Of
course, you got my message."
In spite of her extraordinary behaviour that afternoon, a few hours ago
only, everything seemed quite right and natural to Raife now he heard
her voice, and saw those eyes, and felt the soft touch upon his arm. In
an absent-minded way he said: "Oh, yes! I got your message and I came
at once. Where shall we go? I do want to talk to you." Then
collecting his scattered senses, he asked a dozen questions rapidly.
"Who was the Apache fellow? Why did you snub me this afternoon? What
was the meaning of the note you left for me at the `Queen's,' Southport?
Oh, Gilda, tell me what is the meaning of all this mystery! If there
is any trouble let me help you."
The girl, with a sob, replied: "Sir Raife, don't ask me any questions.
Trust me. It is very hard for me--but don't ask questions. Let us walk
back along the Promenade des Anglais." Then, dreamily, as if to
herself, she added: "Yes--the promenade of the English. We are English.
At least, there is no doubt that you are. I sometimes wonder what I
am."
They walked together until they reached the promenade again. There,
under the light of a street-lamp, they renewed their talk. He, still
interrogative, asked questions to which she would or could not reply.
All she would say was, "Please! Please, don't ask me questions. Just
trust me," and, with a soft tremor in her tones, she added: "Will you be
my friend?"
Raife's conquest was complete. All sense of mistrust had disappeared
with the first seductive notes of the voice he had longed to hear again,
and, to-night, that voice was his.
"I trust you. I trust you implicitly, and I will be your friend."
For good or evil his word was given, and the word of a Remington was
never lightly given. Passion or love, call it what you will, has led
men and women into strangely incongruous and many dangerous situations.
This promise, given with the impetuosity of youth aglow and veins afire,
might lead to tragic disaster or the consummation of a pure and natural
union.
The flow of lover's conversation is frequently intermittent, and
sometimes erratic, and now there was a lull in the talk. At length
Gilda said: "I read in the newspapers that your father was killed--or
murdered by an armed burglar." Raife shuddered at the allusion.
Continuing, she added: "Did you see the body of the murderer?"