Raife Remington finished his cigar and returned rather lazily to his
room, thinking all the while of the vision of loveliness that had so
entranced him--his mind--his soul--his very being.
The little Yale key opened his door, and the lock yielded gracefully to
its turn.
Even on the Riviera, the wide expanse of beautiful country which begins
on the northern shore of the Mediterranean Sea and extends northwards
somewhere towards the Alps--there are Yale keys.
Yale keys may come from anywhere. They do not all arrive from the
United States, the land of their invention. Wherever they are found, or
wherever they may come from, they serve a useful purpose. They are
small and flat, and it is possible to get more Yale keys into a given
space on a ring, than any other keys with a reputation for security.
The other keys that Raife Remington carried were not of this nature.
The key of the white room at the old "Blue Boar," in Tunbridge Wells was
much more ponderous. Those of Aldborough Park were invented before the
days of Yale and Harvard. The locksmiths who forged and hammered the
keys of Aldborough preceded the foundation of American universities.
They were cumbersome, and they lay heavily in the pockets of the light
suit of clothes which is customary on a spring night at Nice. Raife
also sat heavily in the chair, which faced the fire in his room in the
Hotel Royal, after his last cigar and "nightcap" below.
He dreamt of the events which had crowded a long day. His mind was
obsessed. A thousand recollections of mysterious occurrences attacked
him from without and within. The sleep, which is a half-sleep,
bordering on a doze, gave him no rest. He awoke from this state of
semi-somnolence. There was a tap--a very distinct tap or rap at the
door. Half-clad, and yawning, he rose from his chair and opened the
door. A neatly-clad chambermaid stood without, and with an accent which
is charming to us of the North, said: "Sir Raife, Miss Tempest send me
to you. She say, she lose her keys. Perhaps, Sir Raife, your keys will
open her valise. Will you, Sir Raife, lend your keys for the occasion?"
Most young men are human, and the obvious is natural to humanity. Raife
promptly replied to this neatly-clad, soft-voiced young woman: "Yes. To
be sure. Tell Miss Tempest I am sorry if she has suffered any
inconvenience from her loss. If any of my keys will open her valise, I
am glad to have been of service."
The maid retired. Sir Raife lazily went to bed, now to sleep, for a
short while, that tired sleep that comes to youth which is only in love,
and has no greater anxiety than a torn heart recently healed.
The maid returned to Gilda's room and handed the bunch of keys to her,
saying: "The Signor send you his keys with ze great pleasure--
Signorina."
The Southern man and matron smile so often that one cannot always
separate the smiles and decide which is cynical, and which is gracious
or friendly. The maid retired, smiling.
Gilda took the keys and gazed at them.
Then, with a fondling grasp, she handled them--murmuring the while:
"These are Raife's keys--the keys of Aldborough Park."
Gazing into space, with a glazed expression, she sank upon the lounge at
the foot of her bed and gasped: "Why must I do these hateful things!"
A soft knock at the door awakened her from the lapse which had ended in
this momentary display of despair. Gilda went to the door expecting
that the maid had returned for some trivial purpose. Hastily placing
the keys in one of those hidden places which women secrete among their
clothing, she opened the door, saying, "Yes. What is it?" The maid was
not there.
At this hour, which was early, very early, for the Hotel Royal at Nice,
there stood a lugubrious figure. Tall, crumpled, yet retaining a
somewhat dignified demeanour, Doctor Malsano stood there at his worst.
In a stifled, sepulchral voice he demanded: "Have you got them--the
keys?"
The frightened girl, with a devilment which belongs to all who may hold
a whip-hand for a moment, lost her temporary sense of dismay and
answered boldly: "What do you want?"
He hissed the words at her. "Have you got the keys? The keys, I tell
you. Have you got them?"
That moment of bravery left Gilda almost as quickly as she had become
possessed of it. The swivel eye, and the rest of that remarkable
countenance and personality, in spite of his dishevelled and distorted
appearance, regained the mastery.