It would be difficult to define the emotions that consumed Miss Garrison as she entered her mother's boudoir. She could not conceal from herself the sensation of jubilant delight because he had come to Brussels. At the same time, even though his visit was that of a mere friend, it promised complications which she was loath to face. She went into the presence of her mother with the presentiment that the first of the series was at hand.
“What is Philip Quentin doing here, Dorothy?” demanded Mrs. Garrison. She was standing in the center of the room, and her attitude was that of one who has experienced a very unpleasant surprise. The calm, cold tone was not far from accusing; her steely eyes were hard and uncompromising. The tall daughter stood before her, one hand still clutching the bits of white paper; on her face there was the imprint of demure concern.
“I haven't had time to ask him, mamma,” she said, lightly, “Would it be quite the proper thing to demand the reason for his presence here when it seems quite clear that he is paying us a brief morning call?”
“Do not be absurd! I mean, what is he doing in Brussels? Didn't he say he was to return to New York last week?” There was refined belligerence in her voice. Dorothy gave a brief thought to the cool, unabashed young man below and smiled inwardly as she contemplated the reception he was to receive from this austere interrogator.
“Don't ask me, mamma, I am as much puzzled as you over his sudden advent. It is barely possible he did not go to New York.”
“Well, why didn't he?” This was almost a threat.
“It is a mystery we have yet to unravel. Shall we send for Sherlock Holmes?”
“Dorothy, I am very serious. How can you make light of this unwarranted intrusion? He is—”
“Why do you call it intrusion, mamma? Has he not the right to come? Can we close the door in his face? Is he not a friend? Can we help ourselves if he knocks at our door and asks to see us?” Dorothy felt a smart tug of guilt as she looked back and saw herself trudging sheepishly up the front steps beside the intruder, who had not been permitted to knock at the door.
“A gentleman would not subject you to the comments of—of—well, I may say the whole world. He certainly saw the paragraphs in those London papers, and he knows that we cannot permit them to be repeated over here. He has no right to thrust himself upon us under the circumstances. You must give him to understand at once, Dorothy, that his intentions—or visits, if you choose to call them such—are obnoxious to both of us.”
“Oh, mamma! we've talked all this over before. What can I do? I wouldn't offend him for the world, and I am sure he is incapable of any desire to have me talked about, He knows me and he likes me too well for that. Perhaps he will go away soon,” said Dorothy, despairing petulance in her voice, Secretly she was conscious of the justice in her mother's complaints.
“He shall go soon,” said Mrs. Garrison, with determination.
“You will not—will not drive him away?” said her daughter, quickly.
“I shall make him understand that you are not the foolish child he knew in New York. You are about to become a princess. He shall be forced to see the impregnable wall between himself and the Princess Ravorelli—for you are virtually the owner of that glorious title. A single step remains and then you are no longer Dorothy Garrison. Philip Quentin I have always disliked, even mistrusted. His reputation in New York was that of a man of the town, a rich roisterer, a 'breaker of hearts,' as your uncle has often called him. He is a daring notoriety seeker, and this is rare sport for him.” Mrs. Garrison's eyes were blazing, her hands were clenched, her bearing that of one who is both judge and executioner.
“I think you do him an injustice,” said Dorothy, slowly, a feeling of deep resentment asserting itself. “Philip is not what you call him. He is a gentleman.” Mother and daughter looked into each other's eyes squarely for a moment, neither flinching, both justifying themselves for the positions they were to take.
“You defend him?”
“As he would defend me.”
“You have another man to defend. Do you think of him?”
“You have yet to say that Ugo is no gentleman. It will then be time for defense, such as I am offering now.”
“We are keeping your friend waiting, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Garrison, with blasting irony. “Give him my compliments and say that we trust he may come every day. He affords us a subject for pleasant discussion, and I am sure Prince Ugo will be as charmed to meet him here as he was in London.”
“Don't be sarcastic, mamma. It doesn't help matters and—” began Dorothy, almost plaintively.
“Mr. Quentin certainly does not help matters, my dear. Still, if you will enjoy the comment, the notoriety that he may be generous enough to share with you, I can say no more. When you are ready to dismiss him, you shall find me your ally.” She was triumphant because she had scored with sarcasm a point where reason must have fallen far short.
“I might tell Rudolf to throw him into the street,” said Dorothy, dolefully, “only I am quite positive Phil would refuse to be thrown by less than three Rudolfs. But he is expecting you downstairs, mamma. He asked for you.”
“I cannot see him to-day. Tell him I shall be only too glad to see him if he calls again,” and there was a deep, unmistaken meaning in the way she said it.
“You will not go down?” Dorothy's face flushed with something akin to humiliation. After all, he did not deserve to be treated like a dog.
“I am quite content upstairs,” replied Mrs. Garrison, sweetly.
Dorothy turned from her mother without another word, and as she went down the stairs there was rebellion in her soul; the fires of resistance showed their first tiny tongues in the hot wave that swept through her being. Quentin was stretched out comfortably in a big chair, his back toward the stairs, his eyes upon the busy avenue below. She paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs and there was a strange longing to pass her fingers over the thick dark hair. The thought passed instantaneously, but there was a new shyness in her manner as she approached.
“Hullo,” he said, arising as he heard her footfall. “Been watching the people drive by. Pretty smart traps, some of them, too. The old families that came over in the Ark with Moses—er, Noah, I should say.” There was deep concern in the remark, but she was confident that he vaguely understood why she was alone.
“Mamma trusts you will excuse her this morning. She says she will be glad to see you when you come again.” She seated herself on a divan near the window, a trifle out of the glaring light of the August sun. She held in her hand a fan and the bits of paper had disappeared. “Isn't it dreadfully warm?”
“Looks like rain, too,” said he, briefly. Then, with new animation: “Tell me, what was in that letter?”
“Nothing but nonsense,” she replied, smiling serenely, for she was again a diplomat.
“How dare you! How dare you write nonsense to me? But, really, I'd like to know what it was. You'll admit I have a right to be curious.”
“It pleases me to see you curious. I believe it is the first time I ever saw you interested in anything. Quite novel, I assure you.”
“Don't you mean to tell me?”
“Assuredly—not.”
“Well, I think it's a roaring shame to write anything to a fellow that he can't be allowed to read. I wouldn't treat you that way.”
“I know you wouldn't. You are too good, and too sensible, and too considerate, and all the other kind of too's, while I am just an unaccountable ninny. If you ever did anything crazy you wouldn't like to have it found out, would you?”
“By all means! Then I could take treatment for the malady. Lean forward, Dorothy, so that I can see your eyes. That's right! Now, look at me squarely. Will you tell me what was in that letter?” She returned his gaze steadily, almost mockingly.
“No.”
“That's all I want to know. I can always tell by a girl's eyes whether she is stubborn.”
“I am not stubborn.”
“Well, I'll drop the matter for all time. Doubtless you were right when you said it was nonsense; you ought to know. Changing the subject, I think I'll like Brussels if I stay here long enough.” He was again nonchalant, indifferent. Under her mask of unconcern she felt a trifle piqued that he did not persist in his endeavor to learn the contents of the unfortunate letter.
“How long do you expect—I mean purpose to stay?” she asked.
“It depends on conditions. I may be crazy enough to stay six weeks and I may be crazy enough to go away next week. You see, I'm not committing myself to any specified degree of insanity; it won't make so much difference when I am found out, as you say. At present, however, I contemplate staying until that affair at St. Gudule.”
She could not hide the annoyance, the discomfiture, his assertion inspired. In a second she saw endless unpleasantries—some pleasantries, it is fair to say—and there seemed to be no gentle way of escape. At the same time, there came once more the queer flutter she had felt when she met him in the street, a half-hour before.
“You will find it rather dull here, I am afraid,” she found courage to say. “Or do you know many people—the American minister, perhaps?”
“Don't know a soul here but you and Mrs. Garrison. It won't be dull—not in the least. We'll ride and drive, go ballooning or anything you like—”
“But I can't, Phil. Do you forget that I am to be married in six weeks?” she cried, now frightened into an earnest appeal.
“That's it, precisely. After that you can't go ballooning with anybody but the prince, so for at least a month you can have a good time telling me what a jolly good fellow he is. That's what girls like, you know, and I don't mind in the least. If you want to talk about him by the hour, I won't utter an objection. Of course, I suppose you'll be pretty busy with your trousseau and so forth, and you'll have the house full of visitors, too, no doubt. But you can give me a little time.”
“I am sure mamma would not—”
“She never did approve, if that's what you were about to say. What is she afraid of? Does she imagine that I want to marry you? Good heavens!” So devout was his implied denial of such a project that she felt herself grow hot. “Doesn't she think the prince has you safely won? You are old enough to take care of yourself, I'm sure.”
“She knows that I love Prince Ugo, and that he is the only man I shall ever love. Her disapproval would arise from the needless exposure to comment. You remember what the London paper said about us.” If she thought that he was chilled by her bold opening assertion she was to find herself mistaken. He smiled complacently.
“I thought it was very nice of them. I am preserving the clipping,” he said, airily. “We can talk over this little difficulty with public opinion when we've had more time to think about it. You see, I've been here but ten hours, and I may be willing to leave tomorrow, that is, after I've seen more of the town. I may not like the king, and I'm quite sure the palace doesn't suit me. I'll come around to-morrow and we'll drive through one of these famous parks—”
“Oh, no, Phil! Really, you don't know how it embarrasses me—”
“I'll go away to-night, if you say you don't want to see me at all, Dorothy,” he said, seriously, rising and standing before her.
“I don't mean that. You know I want to see you—for old times' sake.”
“I shall go, nevertheless, if you merely hint that I am unwelcome.” She arose and suddenly gave him her hand.
“You are not unwelcome, and you are foolish to speak in that manner,” she said, seriously.
“And your mother?”
“She must endure what I endure.”
“Somewhere Baedeker says that the Bois de la Cambre is the finest park in Brussels,” said he, his eyes gleaming.
“I am quite sure Baedeker is reliable,” she agreed, with a smile.
“At three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, then, I will come for you. Will you remember me to your mother and tell her I am sorry not to see her to-day? Good-bye!”
She followed him to the door, and when he sped lightly down the steps there was a broad smile on the face of each. He turned and both laughed outright. “Where there's a will, there's a way,” she mused, as she went to her room upstairs. An hour later her daily letter to the prince was ready for the post. The only allusion to the visitor of the morning was: “Mr. Quentin—our New York friend, you will remember—made us a brief call this morning. He is quite undecided as to the length of his stay here, but I hope you will be here to see him.”
Then, dismissing Quentin from her mind, she sat down to dream of the one great event in her life—this wonderful, glorious wedding in old St. Gudule's. Already her trousseau was on a fair way to completion. She gave no thought to the fortune that these gowns were to cost, she considered not the glories she was to reap by becoming a real princess, she dwelt not on the future before her, for she knew she was to be happy with Ugo. Instead, she dreamed only of the “color scheme” that was to make memorable her wedding procession.
In her mind's eye she saw the great church thronged with the most brilliant, illustrious assemblage it had ever held (she was quite sure no previous gathering could have been more august), and a smile of pride came to her lips. The great chorus, the procession, the lights, the incomprehensible combination of colors, the chancel, the flowers, her wedding gown, and Ugo's dark, glowing face rushed in and out of her vision as she leaned back in her chair and—almost forgot to breathe. The thought of Ugo grew and grew; she closed her eyes and saw him at her side as they walked proudly from the altar with the good bishop's blessing and the song of the choir in their ears, the swelling of love in their souls. So vivid became the dream of his presence that she could almost feel his hand touching hers: she felt her eyes turn toward him, with all that great crowd watching, and her heart quivered with passion as his dark, happy eyes burnt through to her very soul. Somehow she heard distinctly the whisper, “My wife!”
Suddenly a strange chill came over this idle, happy dream, and she opened her eyes with a start, Ugo's face fading away like a flash. The thought had rushed in like a stab from a dagger. Would Philip Quentin be there, and would he care? Would he care?
“Th' juke sent his card up, sir,” said Turk, his master was once more in his rooms at the Bellevue. Turk was looking eminently respectable in a new suit of blue serge.
“When?” asked Phil, glancing at Laselli's card. He had forgotten the Italian, and the sight of his name recalled the plot unpleasantly.
“'Bout eleven o'clock. I watched him leave th' hotel an' go down that street over there—th' same one you took a little earlier.”
“Watching me, I suspect. Haven't seen that detective fellow, have you, Turk? You ought to be able to scent a detective three miles away.”
“I can't scent in this language, sir.”
Early in the evening, as Quentin was leaving the hotel for a short stroll, he met the duke. The Italian accosted him familiarly and asked if he were trying to find a cool spot.
“I thought a ride on the tramcars might cool me off a bit,'” said Phil.
“I know the city quite well, and I, too, am searching for relief from the heat. Do you object to company in your ride or stroll?”
“Happy to have you, I assure you. If you'll be good enough to wait here for a moment, till I find my stick, I'll be with you.” The duke bowed politely, and Phil hastened back to his rooms. He secured his stick, and did more. Like a wise young man, he bethought himself of a possible trap, and the quest of the stick gave him the opportunity to instruct Turk to follow him and the duke and to be where he was needed in case of an emergency.
The tall, fresh-faced American in his flannels, and the short, bearded Italian in his trim frock coat and silk hat strolled leisurely forth into the crowded Place du Palais.
“Shall we walk awhile and then find a cafe where we may have something to drink?” asked the duke, his English so imperfect that no writer could reproduce it.
“I am in your hands, and at your mercy,” said the other, clinging close to him as they merged into the crowd.
“May I ask if you have many friends in Brussels?” Under the politeness of the inquiry Quentin, with amusement, saw the real interest. Looking calmly into the Italian's beady eyes, he said:
“I know but four persons here, and you are included in the list. My servant is another. Mrs. and Miss Garrison are old and particular friends, you know. In fact, my dear duke, I don't believe I should have come to Brussels at all were they not here.”
“They are most charming and agreeable,” murmured the duke. “This is such a frightful crowd Shall we not cross to the other side?”
“What's the use? I used to play football—you don't know what that is, I suppose—and I'll show you how to get through a mob. Get in front—that's right—and I'll bring up in the rear.” Laughing to himself, he brought his big frame up against the little man's back and surged forward. Sure enough, they went “through the mob,” but the duke was the volley end of the battering ram. Never in all his life had he made such hurried and seemingly unnecessary progress through a blockading crowd of roisterers. When they finally went lunging into the half-deserted Rue de la Madeleine, his silk hat was awry, his composure was ruffled, and he was very much out of breath. Phil, supremely at ease, heaved a sigh of satisfaction, drawing from the Italian a half-angry, half-admiring glance.
“Much easier than I thought,” said Quentin, puffing quietly at his cigar.
“We did it very nicely,” agreed the other, with a brave effort to equal the American's unconcern. Nevertheless, he said to himself many times before they reached the broad Boulevard Anspach, that never had he taken such “a stroll,” and never had he known how little difference there was between a steam and a human propeller. He almost forgot, as they sat at a small, table in front of a cafe, to institute his diplomatic search for the real object of the American's presence in Brussels.
It was twelve o'clock when they returned to the hotel, after a rather picturesque evening in the gay cafes.
Here is what the keen little Italian deduced: Quentin was to remain in Brussels until he took a notion to go somewhere else; Quentin had seen the prince driving on the Paris boulevards; the Bois de la Cambre offers every attraction to a man who enjoys driving; the American slept with a revolver near his pillow, and his manservant had killed six or seven men in the United States because of his marvellous skill with the pistol; Quentin was a most unsophisticated young man, with honesty and innocence in his frank eyes, although they sometimes grew rather searching; he could only be overcome by cunning; he was in love with Miss Garrison.
Quentin's conclusions: Laselli was a liar and an ass; Prince Ugo would be in Brussels within ten days; he was careless with the hearts of women and cruel with their love; French detectives are the best in the world, the most infallible; Miss Garrison loved the very ground the prince trod upon. He also discovered that the duke could drink wine as a fish drinks water, and that he seldom made overtures to pay for it until his companion had the money in hand, ready to do so.
Turk was waiting for him when he reached his rooms, and Turk was not amiable. A very attractive, innocent and demure young lady, who could not speak English except with her hands and eyes, had relieved him of a stickpin and his watch while he sat with her at a table not far from the man he was protecting with his vaunted “eagle eye.”
“An' she swiped 'em right under me nose, an' me eyes square on her, too. These people are too keen for me. They ain't a fairy in New York that could 'a' touched me without d' dope, lemme tell you. I t'ought I knowed a t'ing er two, but I don't know buttons from fishhooks. I'm d' easiest t'ing 'at ever went to Sunday school.”
It was with a flushed, rebellious face that Miss Garrison stepped into the victoria the next afternoon for the drive to the Bois de la Cambre. She had come from a rather trying tilt with her mother, and, as they drove off between the rows of trees, she felt that a pair of flaming eyes were levelled from a certain upstairs window in the Avenue Louise. The Biblical admonition to “honor thy father and thy mother” had not been entirely disregarded by this willful young lady, but it had been stretched to an unusual limit for the occasion. She felt that she was very much imposed upon by circumstances in the shape of an unreasonable mother and an inconvenient friend.
Mr. Quentin, more in love than ever, and more deeply inspired by the longing to win where reason told him he must fail, did not flatter himself into believing that Mrs. Garrison wholly approved of the drive. Instead, he surmised from the beginning that Dorothy's flushed cheeks were not from happiness, but from excitement, and that he was not altogether a shadowy cause. With rare tact he plunged at once to the bottom of the sea of uncertainty and began to struggle upward to the light, preferring such a course to the one where you start at the top, go down and then find yourself powerless to get back to the surface.
“Was your mother very much annoyed when you said you were coming out with me?” he asked. She started and a queer little tinge of embarrassment sprang into her eyes.
“How absurd!” she said, readily, however. “Isn't the avenue beautiful?”
“I don't know—yet,” he said, without looking at the avenue. “What did she say?” Miss Garrison did not reply, but looked straight ahead as if she had not heard him. “See here, Dorothy, I'm not a child and I'm not a lovesick fool. Just curious, that's all. Your mother has no cause to be afraid of me—”
“You flatter yourself by imagining such a thing as—”
“—because there isn't any more danger that I shall fall in love with you than there is of—of—well, of your falling in love with me; and you know how improbable—”
“I don't see any occasion to refer to love in any way,” she said, icily. “Mamma certainly does not expect me to do such an extraordinary thing. If you will talk sensibly, Phil, we may enjoy the drive, but if you persist in talking of affairs so ridiculous—”
“I can't say that I expect you to fall in love with me, so for once your mother and I agree. Nevertheless, she didn't want you to come with me,” he said, absolutely undisturbed.
“How do you know she didn't?” she demanded, womanlike. Then, before she was quite aware of it, they were in a deep and earnest discussion of Mrs. Garrison, and her not very complimentary views.
“And how do you feel about this confounded prospect, Dorothy? You are not afraid of what a few gossips—noble or otherwise—may say about a friendship that is entirely the business of two people and not the property of the general public? If you feel that I am in the way I'll gladly go, you know. Of course, I'd rather hate to miss seeing you once in a while, but I think I'd have the courage to—”
“Oh, it's not nice of you to be sarcastic,” she cried, wondering, however, whether he really meant “gladly” when he said it. Somehow she felt herself admitting that she was piqued by his apparent readiness to abdicate. She did not know that he was cocksure of his ground before making the foregoing and other observations equally as indifferent.
“I'm not sarcastic; quite the reverse. I'm very serious. You know how much I used to think of you—”
“But that was long ago, and you were such a foolish boy,” she cried, interrupting nervously.
“Yes, I know; a boy must have his foolish streaks. How a fellow changes as he gets older, and how he looks back and laughs at the fancies he had when a boy. Same way with a girl, though, I suppose.” He said it so calmly, so naturally that she took a sly peep at his face. It revealed nothing but blissful imperturbability.
“I'm glad you agree with me. You see, I've always thought you were horribly broken up when I—when I found that I also was indulging in a foolish streak. I believe I came to my senses before you did, though, and saw how ridiculous it all was. Children do such queer things, don't they?” It was his turn to take a sly peep, and his spirits went down a bit under the pressure of her undisguised frankness.
“How lucky it was we found it out before we ran away with each other, as we once had the nerve to contemplate. Gad, Dorothy, did you ever stop to think what a mistake it would have been?” She was bowing to some people in a brougham, and the question was never answered. After a while he went on, going back to the original subject. “I shall see Mrs. Garrison to-night and talk it over with her. Explain to her, you know, and convince her that I don't in the least care what the gossips say about me. I believe I can live it all down, if they do say I am madly, hopelessly in love with the very charming fiancee of an Italian prince.”
“You have me to reckon with, Phil; I am the one to consider and the one to pass judgment. You may be able to appease mamma, but it is I who will determine whether it is to be or not to be. Let us drop the subject. For the present, we are having a charming drive. Is it not beautiful?”
To his amazement and to hers, when they returned late in the afternoon Mrs. Garrison asked him to come back and dine.
“I must be dreaming,” he said to himself, as he drove away. “She's as shrewd as the deuce, and there's a motive in her sudden friendliness. I'm beginning to wonder how far I'll drop and how hard I'll hit when this affair explodes. Well, it's worth a mighty strenuous effort. If I win, I'm the luckiest fool on earth; if I lose, the surprise won't kill me.” At eight he presented himself again at the Garrison house and found that he was not the only guest. He was introduced to a number of people, three of whom were Americans, the others French. These were Hon. and Mrs. Horace Knowlton and their daughter, Miss Knowlton, M. and Mme. de Cartier, Mile. Louise Gaudelet and Count Raoul de Vincent.
“Dorothy tells me you are to be in Brussels for several weeks, and I was sure you would be glad to know some of the people here. They can keep you from being lonesome, and they will not permit you to feel that you are a stranger in a strange land,” said Mrs. Garrison. Quentin bowed deeply to her, flashed a glance of understanding at Dorothy, and then surveyed the strangers he was to meet. Quick intelligence revealed her motive in inviting him to meet these people, and out of sheer respect for her shrewdness he felt like applauding. She was cleverly providing him with acquaintances that any man might wish to possess, and she was doing it so early that the diplomacy of her action was as plain as day to at least two people.
“Mamma is clever, isn't she?” Dorothy said to him, merrily, as they entered the dining-room. Neither was surprised to find that he had been chosen to take her out. It was in the game.
“She is very kind. I can't say how glad I am to meet these people. My stay here can't possibly be dull,” he said. “Mile. Gaudelet is stunning, isn't she?”
“Do you really think so?” she asked, and she did not see his smile.
The dinner was a rare one, the company brilliant, but there was to occur, before the laughter in the wine had spent itself, an incident in which Philip Quentin figured so conspicuously that his wit as a dinner guest ceased to be the topic of subdued side talk, and he took on a new personality.
The broad veranda, which faced the avenue and terminated at the corner of the house in a huge circle, not unlike an open conservatory, afforded a secluded and comparatively cool retreat for the diners later in the evening. Banked along the rails were the rarest of tropical plants; shaded incandescent lamps sent their glow from somewhere among the palms, and there was a suggestion of fairy-land in the scene. If Quentin had a purpose in being particularly assiduous in his attentions to Mlle. Gaudelet, he did not suspect that he was making an implacable foe of Henri de Cartier, the husband of another very charming young woman. Unaccustomed to the intrigues of Paris, and certainly not aware that Brussels copied the fashions of her bigger sister across the border in more ways than one, he could not be expected to know that de Cartier loved not his wife and did love the pretty Louise. Nor could his pride have been convinced that the young woman at his side was enjoying the tete-a-tete chiefly because de Cartier was fiercely cursing the misfortune which had thrown this new element into conflict. It may be unnecessary to say that Mrs. Garrison was delighted with the unmistakable signs of admiration manifested by the two young people.
It was late when Quentin reluctantly arose to make his adieux. He had finished acknowledging the somewhat effusive invitations to the houses of his new acquaintances, and was standing near Dorothy, directly in front of a tall bank of palms. From one point of view this collection of plants looked like a dense jungle, so thickly were they placed on the porch at its darkest end. The light from a drawing-room window shone across the front of the green mass, but did not penetrate the recess near the porch rail. He was taking advantage of a very brief opportunity, while others were moving away, to tell her that Mile. Louise was fascinating, when her hand suddenly clasped his arm and she whispered:
“Phil, there is a man behind those palms.” His figure straightened, but he did not look around.
“Nonsense, Dorothy. How could a man get—” he began, in a very low tone.
“I saw the leaves move, and just now I saw a foot near the rail. Be careful, for heaven's sake, but look for yourself; he is near the window.”
Like statues they stood, she rigid under the strain, but brave enough and cool enough to maintain a remarkable composure. She felt the muscle of his forearm contract, and there swept over her a strange dread. His eyes sought the spot indicated in a perfectly natural manner, and there was no evidence of perturbation in his gaze or posture. The foot of a man was dimly discernible in the shadow, protruding from behind a great earthen jar. Without a word he led her across the porch to where the others stood.
“Good-night, Mrs. Garrison,” he said, calmly, taking the hand she proffered. Dorothy, now trembling like a leaf, looked on in mute surprise. Did he mean to depart calmly, with the knowledge that they needed his protection? “Good-night, Miss Garrison. I trust I shall see you soon.” Then, in a lower tone: “Get the people around the corner here, and not a word to them.”
The ladies were quite well past the corner before he ventured to tell the men, whom he held back on some trifling pretext, that there was a man among the plants. The information might have caused a small panic had not his coolness dominated the nerves of the others.
“Call the gendarmes,” whispered de Cartier, panic stricken. “Call the servants.”
“We don't want the officers nor the servants,” said Philip, coolly. “Let the ladies get inside the house and we'll soon have a look at our fellow guest.”
“But he may be armed,” said the count, nervously.
“Doubtless he is. Burglars usually are. I had an experience with an armed burglar once on a time, and I still live. Perhaps a few palms will be damaged, but we'll be as considerate as possible. There is no time to lose, gentlemen. He may be trying to escape even now.”
Without another word he turned and walked straight toward the palms. Not another man followed, and he faced the unwelcome guest alone. Faced is the right word, for the owner of the telltale foot had taken advantage of their momentary absence from that end of the porch to make a hurried and reckless attempt to leave his cramped and dangerous hiding-place. He was crowding through the outer circle of huge leaves when Quentin swung into view. The light from the window was full in the face of the stranger, white, scared, dogged.
“Here he is!” cried Quentin, leaping forward. “Come on, gentlemen!”
With a frantic plunge the trapped stranger crashed through the plants, crying hoarsely in French as he met Quentin in the open:
“I don't want to kill you! Keep off!”
Quentin's arm shot out and the fellow went tumbling back among the pots and plants. He was up in an instant. As the American leaped upon him for the second blow, he drove his hand sharply, despairingly, toward that big breast. There came the ripping of cloth, the tearing of flesh, and something hot gushed over Phil's shoulder and arm. His own blow landed, but not squarely, and, as he stumbled forward, his lithe, vicious antagonist sprang aside, making another wild but ineffectual sweep with the knife he held in his right hand. Before Quentin could recover, the fellow was dashing straight toward the petrified, speechless men at the end of the porch, where they had been joined by some of the women.
“Out of the way! Out of the way!” he shrieked, brandishing his knife. Through the huddled bunch he threw himself, unceremoniously toppling over one of them. The way was clear, and he was down the steps like a whirlwind. It was all over in an instant's time, but before the witnesses to the encounter could catch the second breath, the tall form of Philip Quentin was flying down the steps in close pursuit. Out into the Avenue Louise they raced, the fugitive with a clear lead.
“Come back, Phil!” cried a woman's voice, and he knew the tone because of the thrill it sent to his heart.
He heard others running behind him, and concluded that his fellow guests had regained their wits and were in the chase with him. If the pursued heard the sudden, convulsive laugh of the man behind him he must have wondered greatly. Phil could not restrain the wild desire to laugh when he pictured the sudden and precipitous halt his valiant followers would be compelled to make if the fugitive should decide to stop and show fight. One or more of them would doubtless be injured in the impossible effort to run backward while still going forward.
Blood was streaming down his arm and he was beginning to feel an excruciating pain. Pedestrians were few, and they made no effort to obstruct the flight of the fugitive. Instead, they gave him a wide berth. From far in the rear came hoarse cries, but Quentin was uttering no shout. He was grinding his teeth because the fellow had worsted him in the rather vainglorious encounter on the porch, and was doing all in his power to catch him and make things even. To his dismay the fellow was gaining on him and he was losing his own strength. Cursing the frightened men who allowed the thief to pass on unmolested and then joined in the chase, he raced panting onward. The flying fugitive suddenly darted into a narrow, dark street, fifty feet ahead of his pursuer, and the latter felt that he had lost him completely. There was no sign of him when Quentin turned into the cross street; he had disappeared as if absorbed by the earth.
For a few minutes Philip and the mob—quite large, inquisitive and eager by this time—searched for a trace of the man, but without avail. The count, de Cartier and the Honorable Mr. Knowlton, with several of Mrs. Garrison's servants, came puffing up and, to his amazement and rage, criticised him for allowing the man to escape. They argued that a concerted attack on the recess amongst the palms would have overwhelmed the fellow and he would now be in the hands of the authorities instead of as free as air. Quentin endured the expostulations of his companions and the fast-enlarging mirth of the crowd for a few moments in dumb surprise. Then he turned suddenly to retrace his steps up the avenue, savagely saying:
“If I had waited till you screwed up nerve enough to make a combined attack, the man would not have been obliged to take this long and tiresome run. He might have called a cab and ridden away in peace and contentment.”
A laugh of derision came from the crowd and the two Frenchmen looked insulted. Mr. Knowlton flushed with shame and hurried after his tall countryman.
“You are right, Quentin, you're right,” he wheezed. “We did not support you, and we are to blame. You did the brave and proper thing, and we stood by like a lot of noodles—”
“Well, it's all over, Knowlton, and we all did the best we could,” responded Philip, with intense sarcasm which was lost on Mr. Knowlton. Just then a sturdy little figure bumped against him and he looked down as the newcomer grasped his arm tightly.
“Hello, Turk! It's about time you were showing up. Where the devil have you been?” exclaimed he, wrathfully.
“I'll tell y' all about it w'en I gits me tires pumped full agin. Come on, come on; it's private—strictly private, an' nobody's nex' but me.” When there was a chance to talk without being overheard by the three discomfited gentlemen in the rear, Turk managed to give his master a bit of surprising news.
“That guy was Courant, that's who he was. He's been right on your heels since yesterday, an' I just gits nex' to it. He follers you up to th' house back yonder an' there's w'ere I loses him. Seems like he hung aroun' the porch er porticker, er whatever it is over here, watchin' you w'en you wuz inside. I don't know his game, but he's th' guy. An' I know w'ere he is now.”
“The dickens you do! You infernal little scoundrel, take me there at once. Good Lord, Turk, I've got to catch him. These people will laugh at me for a month if I don't. Are you sure he is Courant? How do you know? Where is he?” cried Phil, excited and impatient.
“You ain't near bein' keen. He doubled on you, that's w'at he done. W'en you chased him off on that side street he just leaps over th' garden wall an' back he comes into a yard. I comes up, late as usual, just in time t' see him calmly prance up some doorsteps an' ring th' bell. Wile th' gang an' you wuz lookin' fer him in th' gutters an' waste paper boxes, he stan's up there an' grins complackently. Then th' door opens an' he slides in like a fox.”
“Where is the house? We must search it from top to bottom.”
“Can't do that, Mr. Quentin. How are you goin' to search that house without a warrant? An' w'at are you goin' to find w'en you do search it? He's no common thief. He's in a game that we don't know nothin' about, an' he's got cards up his sleeve clear to th' elbow. Th' people in that house is his friends, an' he's safe, so w'at's th' use? I've got th' joint spotted an' he don't know I am nex'. It's a point in our favor. There wuz a woman opened the door, so she's in th' game, too. Let's lay low, Mr. Quentin, an' take it cool.”
“But what in thunder was he doing behind those palms? That wasn't a very sensible bit of detective work, was it?”
“Most detectives is asses. He was hidin' there just to earn his money. To-morrow he could go to th' juke an' tell him how slick he'd been in hearin' w'at you said to th' young lady w'en you thought nobody was listenin'. Was he hid near a window?'
“Just below one—almost against the casing.”
“Easy sailin'. He figgered out that some time durin' th' night you an' her would set in that window an' there you are. See? But I wonder w'at he'll say to th' juke to-morrow?”
“I hate to give this job up,” growled Phil. “But I must get back to the hotel. The villain cut me with a knife.”
By this time they were in front of the Garrison home, and in an undertone he bade Turk walk on and wait for him at the corner below.
“Did he escape?” cried Dorothy from the steps.
“He gave us the slip, confound him, Dorothy.”
“I'm glad, really I am. What could we have done with him if he had been caught? But are you not coming in?”
“Oh, not to-night, thank you. Can't you have some one bring out my hat and coat?” He was beginning to feel faint and sick, and purposely kept the bloody arm from the light.
“You shall not have them unless you come in for them. Besides, we want you to tell us what happened. We are crazy with excitement. Madame de Cartier fainted, and mamma is almost worried to death.”
“Are you not coming up, Mr. Quentin?” called Mrs. Garrison, from the veranda.
“You must come in,” said de Cartier, coming up at that moment with the count and Mr. Knowlton.
“Really, I must go to the hotel, I am a little faint after that wretched run. Let me go, please; don't insist on my coming in,” he said.
“Mon dieu!” exclaimed the count. “It is blood, Monsieur! You are hurt!”
“Oh, not in the least—merely a—”
“Phil!” cried Dorothy, standing in front of him, her wide eyes looking intently into his. “Are you hurt? Tell me!”
“Just a little cut in the arm or shoulder, I think. Doesn't amount to anything, I assure—”
“Come in the house at once, Philip Quentin!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Knowlton, will you ask Franz to telephone for Dr. Berier?” Then she saw the blood-stained hand and shuddered, turning her face away. “Oh, Phil!” she whispered.
“That pays for this cut and more, if necessary,” he said, in a low voice, as he walked at her side up the steps.
“Lean on me, Phil,” she said. “You must be faint.” He laughed merrily, and his eyes sparkled with something not akin to pain.
Dr. Berier came and closed the gash in his shoulder. An hour later he came downstairs, to find Mrs. Garrison and Dorothy alone.
“You were very brave, Mr. Quentin, but very foolhardy,” said Mrs. Garrison. “I hope from my heart the wound will give you little trouble.”
His good right hand closed over hers for an instant and then clasped Dorothy's warmly, lingeringly.
“You must let us hear from you to-morrow,” said she, softly.
“Expect me to fetch the message in person,” said he, and he was off down the steps. He did not look back, or he might have seen her standing on the veranda, her eyes following him till he was joined by another man at the corner below.