Quentin was driving with Lady Saxondale to the home of Miss Garrison's hostess. Phil's fair, calculating companion said to herself that she had never seen a handsomer fellow than this stalwart American. There was about him that clean, strong, sweet look of the absolutely healthy man, the man who has buffeted the world and not been buffeted by the world. He was frank, bright, straightforward, and there was that always-to-be-feared yet ever-to-be-desired gleam of mastery in his eye. It may have been sometimes a wicked mastery, and more than one woman who admired him because she could not help herself had said, “There is a devil in his eyes.”
They found Lady Marnham's reception hall full of guests, few of whom Quentin had seen before. He was relieved to find that the prince was not present, and he made his way to Dorothy's side, with Lady Frances, coolly dropping into the chair which a young captain had momentarily abandoned. Lady Frances sat beside Miss Garrison on the divan.
“I am so glad you kept your promise, Phil, and came. It seems good to see you after all these years. You bring back the dear days at home,” said Dorothy, delight in her voice.
“From that I judge you sometimes long for them,” he said, simply. To Lady Frances it sounded daring.
“Often, oh, so very often. I have not been in New York for years. Lady Saxondale goes back so often that she doesn't have the chance to grow homesick.”
“I hear you are going over this fall,” said Quentin, with a fair show of interest.
“Who—who told you so?” she asked, in some surprise. He could not detect confusion.
“Prince Ravorelli. At least, he said he expected to make the trip this fall. Am I wrong in suspecting that he is not going alone?”
“We mean to spend much of the winter in the United States, chiefly in Florida. I shall depend on you, Phil, to be nice to him in New York. You can do so much to make it pleasant for him. He has never been in New York, you know.”
“It may depend on what he will consider pleasant. I don't believe he will enjoy all the things I like. But I'll try. I'll get Dickey Savage to give a dinner for him, and if he can survive that, he's capable of having a good time anywhere. Dickey's dinners are the real test, you know. Americans stand them because they are rugged and accustomed to danger.”
“You will find Prince Ugo rugged,” she said, flushing slightly, and he imagined he could distinguish a softness in her tone.
“I am told he is an athlete, a great horseman, a marvelous swordsman,” said Lady Frances.
“I am glad you have heard something about him that is true,” said Dorothy, a trifle quickly. “Usually they say that princes are all that is detestable and unmanly. I am sure you will like him, Phil.”
Mrs. Garrison came up at this moment with Lady Marnham, and Quentin arose to greet the former as warmly as he could under the smooth veil of hypocrisy. Again, just before Lady Frances signaled to him that it was time for them to leave, he found himself in conversation, over the teacups, with Dorothy Garrison. This time they were quite alone.
“It doesn't seem possible that you are the same Dorothy Garrison I used to know,” he said, reflectively.
“Have I changed so much?” she asked, and there was in her manner an icy barrier that would have checked a less confident man than Philip Quentin.
“In every way. You were charming in those days.”
“And not charming now, I infer.”
“You are more than charming now. That is hardly a change, however, is it? Then, you were very pretty, now you are beautiful. Then, you were—”
“I don't like flattery, Phil,” she said, hurt by what she felt to be an indifferent effort on his part to please her vanity.
“I am quite sure you remember me well enough to know that I never said nice things unless I meant them. But, now that I think of it, it is the height of impropriety to speak so plainly even to an old friend, and an old—er—chum.”
“Won't you have a cup of tea?” she asked, as calmly as if he were the merest stranger and had never seen her till this hour.
“A dozen, if it pleases you,” he said, laughingly, looking straight into the dark eyes she was striving so hard to keep cold and unfriendly.
“Then you must come another day,” she answered, brightly.
“I cannot come to-morrow,” he said.
“I did not say 'to-morrow.'”
“But I'll come on Friday,” he went on, decisively. She looked concerned for an instant and then smiled.
“Lady Marnham will give you tea on Friday. I shall not be at home,” she said.
“But I am going back to New York next week,” he said, confidently.
“Next week? Are you so busy?”
“I am not anxious to return, but my man Turk says he hates London. He says he'll leave me if I stay here a month. I can't afford to lose Turk.”
“And he can't afford to lose you. Stay, Phil; the Saxondales are such jolly people.”
“How about the tea on Friday?”
“Oh, that is no consideration.”
“But it is, you know. You used to give me tea every day in the week.” He saw at once that he had gone beyond the lines, and drew back wisely. “Let me come on Friday, and we'll have a good, sensible chat.”
“On that one condition,” she said, earnestly.
“Thank you. Good-bye. I see Lady Frances is ready to go. Evidently I have monopolized you to a somewhat thoughtless extent. Everybody is looking daggers at me, including the prince, who came in ten minutes ago.”
He arose and held her hand for a moment at parting. Her swift, abashed glance toward Prince Ugo, whose presence she had not observed, did not escape his eyes. She looked up and saw the peculiar smile on Quentin's lips, and there was deep meaning in her next remark to him:
“You will meet the prince here on Friday. I shall ask him to come early, that he may learn to know you better.”
“Thank you. I'd like to know him better. At what hour is he to come?”
“By 3:30, at least,” she said, pointedly. “Too early to be correct, you suspect?”
“I think not. You may expect me before three. I am not a stickler for form.”
“We shall not serve tea until four o'clock,” she said, coldly.
“That's my hour for tea—just my hour,” he said, blithely. She could not repress the smile that his old willfulness brought to her lips and eyes. “Thank you, for the smile. It was worth struggling for.”
He was gone before she could respond, but the smile lingered as her eyes followed his tall figure across the room. She saw him pause and speak to Prince Ugo, and then pass out with Lady Saxondale. Only Lady Saxondale observed the dark gleam in the Italian's eyes as he responded to the big American's unconventional greeting. On the way home she found herself wondering if Dorothy had ever spoken to the prince of Philip Quentin and those tender, foolish days of girlhood.
“Has she lost any of the charm?” she asked.
“I am not quite sure. I'm to find out on Friday.”
“Are you going back on Friday?” in surprise.
“To drink tea, you know.”
“Did she ask you to come?”
“Can't remember, but I think I suggested it.”
“Be careful, Phil; I don't want you to turn Dorothy Garrison's head.”
“You compliment me by even suspecting that I could. Her head is set; it can't be turned. It is set for that beautiful, bejewelled thing they call a coronet. Besides, I don't want to turn it.”
“I think the prince could become very jealous,” she went on, earnestly.
“Which would mean stilettos for two, I presume.” After a moment's contemplative silence he said: “By Jove! she is beautiful, though.”
Quentin was always the man to rush headlong into the very thickest of whatever won his interest, whether it was the tender encounter of the drawing-room or the dangerous conflict of the field.
When he left Lady Marnham's house late on Friday afternoon he was more delighted than ever with the girl he had once loved. He was with her for nearly an hour before the prince arrived, and he had boldly dashed into the (he called them ridiculous) days when she had been his little sweetheart, the days when both had sworn with young fervor to be true till death. She did not take kindly at first to these references to that early, mistaken affection, but his persistence won. Before the prince arrived, the American had learned how she met him, how he had wooed and won, and how she had inspired jealousy in his hot Italian heart by speaking of the “big, handsome boy” over in New York.
He secured her permission to join her in the Row on Tuesday. There was resistance on her part at first, but he laughed it off.
“You should ask me to your wedding,” he said, as the prince came in.
“But you will not be here.”
“I've changed my mind,” he said, calmly, and then smiled into her puzzled eyes. “Brussels, isn't it?”
“Yes; the middle of September,” she said, dreamily.
“You'll ask me to come?”
“I should have asked you, anyway.”
The two men shook hands. “Sorry I can't stay for tea, Dorothy, but I promised Lord Saxondale I'd meet him at four o'clock.” He did a genuinely American thing as he walked up the street. He whistled a lively air.
For two weeks Phil Quentin did not allow Dorothy to forget the old association, and then came the day of her departure for Paris. Mrs. Garrison was by no means reluctant to leave London,—not that she disliked the place or the people, but that one Philip Quentin had unceremoniously, even gracefully, stepped into the circle of her contentment, rudely obliterating its symmetrical, well-drawn lines.
Mr. Quentin had much to overcome if he contemplated an assault upon the icy reserve with which Dorothy Garrison's mother regarded his genial advances. She recalled the days when her daughter and he were “silly, lovesick children,” and there was not much comfort to be derived from the knowledge that he had grown older and more attractive, and that he lost no opportunity to see the girl who once held his heart in leash. The mother was too diplomatic to express open displeasure or to offer the faintest objection to this renewal of friendship. If it were known that she opposed the visits of the handsome American, all London would wonder, speculate, and finally understand. Her disapproval could only be construed as an acknowledgment that she feared the consequences of association; it would not be long before the story would be afloat that all was not smooth in the love affairs of a certain prince, and that the fires of an old affection were burning brightly and merrily in the face of a wrathful parent's opposition.
In secret, Dorothy herself was troubled more than she cared to admit by the reappearance of one who could not but awaken memories of other days, fondly foolish though they were. He was still the same old Phil, grown older and handsomer, and he brought with him embarrassing recollections. He was nothing more to her now than an old-time friend, and she was nothing to him. She loved Ugo Ravorelli, and, until he appeared suddenly before her in London, Philip Quentin was dead to her thoughts. And yet she felt as if she were playing with a fire that would leave its scar—not on her heart or Quentin's, perhaps, but on that of the man she was to marry.
It required no great strength of vision to see that Ravorelli was jealous, and it was just as plain that Quentin saw and enjoyed the uneasiness he was causing. She could not know, of course, that the American had deliberately planned to play havoc with the peace and comfort of her lover, for she recognized no motive. How could she know that Giovanni Pavesi, the tenor, and Prince Ravorelli were one and the same to Philip Quentin? How could she know that the beautiful Malban was slain in Rio Janeiro, and that Philip Quentin had seen a handsome, dark-eyed youth led to and from the murderer's dock in that far-away Brazilian city? How, then, could she understand the conflict that waged with herself as the battlefield?
As for Quentin, he was bound by no law or duty to respect the position of Prince Ravorelli. He was convinced that the sometime Romeo had the stain of blood on his delicate hands and that in his heart he concealed the secret of Carmenita Malban's death. In his mind, there was no mistake. Quentin's composure was shaken but once in the fortnight of pleasure preceding Dorothy's departure for Paris. That was when she indignantly, almost tearfully, called his attention to the squib in a London society journal which rather daringly prophesied a “break in the Ravorelli-Garrison match,” and referred plainly to the renewal of an “across-the-Atlantic affection.” When he wrathfully promised to thrash the editor of the paper, she shocked him by saying that he had created “enough of a sensation,” and he went home with the dazed feeling of one who has suffered an unexpected blow.
On the evening before the Garrisons crossed the channel, Lord and Lady Saxondale and Philip Quentin found themselves long after midnight in talk about the coming marriage. Quentin was rather silent. His thoughts seemed far from the room in which he sat, and there was the shadow of a new line about the corners of his mouth.
“I am going to Brussels next week,” he said, deliberately. The others stared at him in amazement.
“To Brussels? You mean New York,” said Lady Frances, faintly.
“New York won't see me for some time. I'm going to make a tour of the continent.
“This is going too far, old man,” cried Lord Bob. “You can't gain anything by following her, and you'll only raise the devil of a row all round. Dash it! stay in London.”
“Thanks for the invitation, Bob, but I've always had a desire to learn something about the miniature Paris. I shall spend some time in Paris, and then go up there to compare the places. Besides, there won't be any row.”
“But there will be, Phil,” cried Lady Saxondale. “You must keep out of this affair. Why, all Europe knows of the wedding, and even now the continent is quietly nursing the gossip of the past two weeks.” She dropped into a chair, perplexed and anxious.
“Let me tell you something, both of you. The events of the past two weeks are tame in comparison with those of the next two months,” said Quentin, a new light in his eye. His tall figure straightened and his nostrils expanded.
“Wha—what do you mean?” floundered Lord Bob.
“Just this: I love Dorothy Garrison, and I'm going to marry her.”
“Good heavens!” was the simultaneous gasp of Lord and Lady Saxondale. And they could not dissuade him. Not only did he convince them that he was in earnest, but before he left for Paris he had made them allies. Ugo's experience in Rio Janeiro shocked Lady Frances so seriously that she became a champion of the American's cause and agreed with Lord Bob that Dorothy should not be sacrificed if it were in their power to prevent. Of course Dickey Savage approved of Quentin's campaign and effectually disposed of Lady Jane's faint objections by saying:
“America for the Americans, Brussels for the Americans, England for the Americans, everything and everybody for the Americans, but nothing at all for these confounded foreigners. Let the Italian marry anybody he pleases, just so long as he doesn't interfere with an American. Let the American marry anybody he pleases, and to perdition with all interference. I'm for America against the world in love or in war.”
“Don't forget, Mr. Savage, that you are a foreigner when on British soil,” remonstrated the Lady Jane, vigorously.
“My dear Lady Jane, an American is at home anywhere in this world. If you could see some of the foreigners that land at Castle Garden you wouldn't blame an American for absolutely, irrevocably and eternally refusing to be called a foreigner, even on the shores of Madagascar. We are willing to be most anything, but I'll be hanged if we'll be foreigners.”
A week later Quentin was in Paris. Savage was to join him in Brussels about the middle of August, and Lord and Lady Saxondale promised faithfully to come to that city at a moment's notice. He went blithely away with the firm conviction in his heart that it was not to be a fool's errand. But he was reckoning without the woman in the case.
“If you do marry her, Quentin, I've got just the place for you to live in, for a while at least. I bought an old castle in Luxemburg a couple of years ago, just because the man who owned it was a friend and needed a few thousand pounds. Frances calls it Castle Craneycrow. It's a romantic place, and would be a great deal better than a cottage for love. You may have it whenever the time comes. Nobody lives there now but the caretaker and a lot of deuced traditions. We can discharge the caretaker and you can make fresh traditions. Think it over, my boy, while you are dispatching the prince, the mamma and the fair victim's ambition to become a real live princess.”
“Don't be sarcastic, Bob,” exclaimed Quentin. “I'll not need your castle. We're going to live in the clouds.”
“Beware of the prince,” said Lady Frances. “He is pretty high himself, you know.”
“Let the prince beware,” laughed back the departing guest. “We can't both live in the same cloud, you know. I'll push him off.”
On the day Quentin left Paris for Brussels he came face to face with Prince Ugo on one of the Parisian boulevards. The handsome Italian was driving with Count Sallaconi and two very attractive ladies. That the meeting was unexpected and undesired was made manifest by the anxious look which the prince shot over his shoulder after the carriage had passed.
When Quentin left Paris that night with Turk and his luggage, he was not the only passenger bound for Brussels. At the Gare du Nord two men, one suspiciously like the Duke Laselli, took a compartment in the coach just ahead of Quentin. The train was due to reach Brussels shortly after midnight, and the American had telegraphed for apartments at the Bellevue. There had been a drizzle of rain all the evening, and it was good to be inside the car, even if the seats were uncomfortable.
Turk and his master were the only passengers in the compartment. The watchful eyes of the former had seen several persons, men and women, pass through the aisle into which the section opened. One woman paused at the entrance as if about to enter. She was fair to look upon and Turk gallantly moved, presenting a roomy end of his seat to her. She passed on, however, and the little ex-burglar glanced sharply at his master as if to accuse him of frightening the fair one away. But Quentin was lying back, half-asleep, and there was nothing repellent about the untroubled expression on his face.
Before reaching Le Cateau the same lady passed the entrance and again glanced inside. Turk was now asleep, but his master was staring dreamily toward the aperture leading to the aisle. He saw the woman's face for an instant, and it gradually dawned upon him that there was something familiar about its beauty. Where had he seen her before? Like the curious American he was, he arose a few minutes later and deliberately walked into the aisle. He passed two compartments before he saw the young woman. She was alone and was leaning back, her eyes closed. Quentin observed that she was young and beautiful and possessed the marks of fashion and refinement. As he stood for a moment looking upon the face of the dozing French woman, more certain than ever that he had seen her recently, she opened her eyes with an affrighted start.
He instantly and in some embarrassment turned to escape the eyes which had caught him in a rare bit of impertinence, but was surprised to hear her call softly:
“Monsieur!”
“Mademoiselle,” he replied, pausing, “can I be of service to you?”
“I must speak with you, M. Quentin. Come inside. I shall detain you but a moment, and it is so very important that you should hear me.” She was now sitting upright, visibly excited and confused, but very much in earnest.
“You know my name,” he said, entering and dropping to the seat beside her. “Where have we met? Your face is familiar, but I am ashamed to admit—”
“We have no time to talk of that. You have never met me, and would not know who I am if I told you. Had it not been for that horrid little man of yours I should have boldly addressed you sooner. I must leave the train at Le Cateau, for I cannot go on to Quevy or Mons. It would not be wise for me to leave France at this time. You do not know me, but I wish to befriend you.”
“Befriend me? I am sure one could not ask for a more charming friend,” said he, smiling gallantly, but now evincing a shade of interest.
“No flattery, Monsieur! It is purely a personal matter with me; this is by no means a pleasure trip. I am running a great risk, but it is for my own sake as much as for yours, so do not thank me. I came from Paris on this train because I could not speak to you at the Gare du Nord. You were watched too closely.”
“Watched? What do you mean?” almost gasped Quentin.
“I can only say that you are in danger and that you have incurred the displeasure of a man who brooks no interference.”
He stared at her for a moment, his mind in a whirl. The thought that she might be mad grew, but was instantly succeeded by another which came like a shock.
“Is this man of noble blood?”
“Yes,” she almost whispered, turning her eyes away.
“And he means to do me harm?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Because?”
“Because he fears your power.”
“In what direction?”
“You know without asking, M. Quentin.”
“And why do you take this interest in me? I am nothing to you.”
“It's because you are not to be treated fairly. Listen. On this train are two men who do not know that I am here, and who would be confounded if they were to see me. They are in one of the forward coaches, and they are emissaries sent on to watch your every movement and to report the progress of your—your business in Brussels. If you become too aggressive before the man who employs them can arrange to come to Brussels, you are to be dealt with in a manner effectual. What is to be done with you, I do not know, but I am certain you are in great danger unless you—” She paused, and a queer expression came into her wide eyes.
“Unless what? You interest me.”
“Unless you withdraw from the contest.”
“You assume that there is a contest of some sort. Well, admitting there is one, I'll say that you may go back to the prince and tell him his scheme doesn't work. This story of yours—pardon me, Mademoiselle is a clever one, and you have done your part well, but I am not in the least alarmed. Kindly return to the man who sent you and ask him to come in your stead if he wants to frighten me. I am not afraid of women, you know.”
“You wrong me, Monsieur; I am not his agent. I am acting purely on my own responsibility, for myself alone. I have a personal object in warning you, but that is neither here nor there. Let me add that I wish you success in the undertaking which now interests you. You must believe me, though, when I say that you are in danger. Forewarned is forearmed. I do not know what steps are to be taken against you; time will expose them. But I do know that you are not to win what you seek.”
“This is a very strange proceeding,” began he, half-convinced of her sincerity.
“We are nearing Le Cateau, and I must leave you. The men of whom I speak are the Duke Laselli and a detective called Courant. I know they are sent to watch you, and they mean you no good. Be careful, for God's sake, Monsieur, for I—I—want you to win!” She was standing now, and with trembling fingers was adjusting a thick veil over her face.
“Why are you so interested in me?” he asked, sharply. “Why do you want me to win—to win, well, to win the battle?”
“Because—” she began, but checked herself. A deep blush spread over her face just as she dropped the veil.
“The cad!” he said, understanding coming to him like a flash. “There is more than one heart at stake.”
“Good-bye and good luck, Monsieur,” she whispered. He held her hand for an instant as she passed him, then she was gone.
Mile after mile from Le Cateau to Quevy found him puzzling over the odd experience of the night. Suddenly he started and muttered, half aloud:
“By thunder, I remember now! It was she who sat beside him in the carriage this morning!”
At Quevy the customs officers went through the train, and Quentin knew that he was in Belgium. For some time he had been weighing in his mind the advisability of searching the train for a glimpse of the duke and his companion, doubtful as to the sincerity of the beautiful and mysterious stranger. It was not until the train reached Mons that he caught sight of the duke. He had started out deliberately at last to hunt for the Italian, and the latter evidently had a similar design. They met on the platform and, though it was quite dark, each recognized the other. The American was on the point of addressing the duke when that gentleman abruptly turned and reentered the train, one coach ahead of that occupied by Quentin, who returned to his compartment and proceeded to awaken the snoring man-servant. Without reserve he confided to Turk the whole story of the night up to that point.
“I don't know what their game is, Turk, but we must not be caught napping. We have a friend in the pretty woman who got off in the rain at Le Cateau. She loves the prince, and that's why she's with us.”
“Say, did she look's if she had royal blood in her? Mebby she's a queen er somethin' like that. Blow me, if a feller c'n tell w'at sort of a swell he's goin' up ag'inst over here. Dukes and lords are as common as cabbies are in New York. Anyhow, this duke ain't got no bulge on us. We're nex' to him, all right, all right. Shall I crack him on the knot when we git to this town we're goin' to? A good jolt would put him out o' d' business fer a spell—”
“Now, look here, young man; don't let me hear of you making a move in this affair till I say the word. You are to keep your mouth closed and your hands behind you. What I want you to do is to watch, just as they are doing. Your early training ought to stand you well in hand for this game. I believe you once said you had eyes in the back of your head.”
“Eyes, nothin'! They is microscopes, Mr. Quentin.”
Quentin, during the remainder of the run to Brussels, turned the new situation over and over in his mind. That the prince was ready to acknowledge him as a dangerous rival gave him much satisfaction and inspired the hope that Miss Garrison had given her lover some cause for alarm. The decisive movement on the part of Prince Ugo to forestall any advantage he might acquire while near her in Brussels was a surprise and something of a shock to him. It was an admission, despite his position and the pledge he had from the girl herself, that the Italian did not feel secure in the premises, and was willing to resort to trickery, if not villainy, to circumvent the American who knew him in other days. Phil felt positive that the move against him was the result of deliberate intent, else how should his fair friend of the early evening know that a plot was brewing? Unquestionably she had heard or learned of the prince's directions to the duke. Her own interest in the prince was, of course, the inspiration. To no one but herself could she entrust the delivery of the warning. Her agitated wish, openly expressed, that Quentin might win the contest had a much deeper meaning than would appear on the surface.
From the moment he received the warning the affair began to take on a new aspect. Aside from the primal fact that he was desperately in love with Dorothy Garrison, there was now the fresh incentive that he must needs win her against uncertain odds and in the face of surprising opposition. In this day and age of the world, in affairs of the heart, an American does not look for rivalry that bears the suggestion of medieval romance. The situation savored too much of the story-books that are born of the days when knights held sway, to appear natural in the eyes of an up-to-date, unromantic gentleman from New York, that city where love affairs adjust themselves without the aid of a novelist.
Quentin, of course, was loath to believe that Prince Ugo would resort to underhand means to checkmate a rival whose real purpose had not yet been announced. In six weeks the finest wedding in years was to occur in Brussels. St. Gudule, that historic cathedral, was to be the scene of a ceremony on which all European newspapers had the eye of comment. American papers had printed columns concerning the engagement of the beautiful Miss Garrison. Everywhere had been published the romantic story of this real love match. What, then, should the prince fear?
The train rumbled into the station at Brussels near midnight, and Turk sallied forth for a cab. This he obtained without the usual amount of haggling on his part, due to the disappointing fact that the Belgian driver could understand nothing more than the word Bellevue, while Turk could interpret nothing more than the word franc. As Quentin was crossing to the cab he encountered Duke Laselli. Both started, and, after a moment's pause, greeted each other.
“I thought I saw you at Mons,” said Phil, after the first expressions of surprise.
“Yes; I boarded the train there. Some business called me to Mons last week. And you, I presume, like most tourists, are visiting a dozen cities in half as many days,” said the duke, in his execrable English. They paused at the side of the Italian's conveyance, and Quentin mentally resolved that the dim light, as it played upon the face of the speaker, was showing to him the most repellent countenance he had ever looked upon.
“Oh. no,” he answered, quickly, “I shall probably remain until after the marriage of my friend, Miss Garrison, and Prince Ugo. Are you to be here long?”
“I cannot say,” answered the other, his black eyes fastened on Quentin's, “My business here is of an uncertain nature.”
“Diplomatic, I infer?”
“It would not be diplomatic for me to say so. I suspect I shall see you again, Mr. Quentin.”
“Doubtless; I am to be at the Bellevue.”
“And I, also. We may see some of the town together.”
“You are very kind,” said Quentin, bowing deeply. “Do you travel alone?”
“The duchess is ill and is in Florence. I am so lonely without her.”
“It's beastly luck for business to carry one away from a sick wife. By the way, how is my dear friend, Prince Ugo?”
“Exceptionally well, thank you. He will be pleased to know you are here, for he is coming to Brussels next week. I think, if you will pardon me, he has taken quite a fancy to you.”
“I trust, after longer acquaintance, he may not find me a disappointment,” said Phil warmly, and a faint look of curiosity flashed into the duke's eyes. As they were saying good-night, Quentin looked about for the man who might be Courant, the detective. But the duke's companion was not to be seen.
The next morning Quentin proceeded in a very systematic and effective way to locate the home of the Garrisons. He was aware, in the beginning, that they lived in a huge, beautiful mansion somewhere in the Avenue Louise. He knew from his Baedeker that the upper town was the fashionable quarter, and that the Avenue Louise was one of the principal streets. An electric tramcar took him speedily through the Boulevards Regent and Waterloo to the Avenue Louise. A strange diffidence had prevented him from asking at the hotel for directions that would easily have discovered her home. Somehow he wanted to stroll along the avenue in the early morning and locate the home of Dorothy Garrison without other aid than the power which tells one when he is near the object of his adoration. He left the car at the head of the avenue and walked slowly along the street.
His mind was full of her. Every vehicle that passed attracted his gaze, for he speculated that she might be in one of them. Not a well-dressed woman came within the range of his vision but she was subjected to a hurried inspection, even from a distance. He strode slowly along, looking intently at each house. None of them seemed to him to hold the object of his search. As his steps carried him farther and farther into the beautiful avenue he began to smile to himself and his plodding spirit wavered. After all, thought he, no one but a silly ass would attempt to find a person in a great city after the fashion he was pursuing. He was deciding to board a tramcar and return to the hotel when, at some distance ahead, he saw a young lady run hurriedly down the steps of an impressive looking house.
He recognized Dorothy Garrison, and with a thump of exultation his heart urged him across the street toward her. She evidently had not seen him; her eyes were on the ground and she seemed preoccupied. In her hand she held a letter. A gasp of astonishment, almost of alarm, came from her lips, her eyes opened wide in that sort of surprise which reveals something like terror, and then she crumpled the letter in her hand spasmodically.
“I thought you lived down here somewhere,” he exclaimed, joyfully, seizing her hand. “'I knew I could find you.”
“I—I am so glad to see you,” she stammered, with a brave effort to recover from the shock his appearance had created. “What are you doing here, Phil?”
“Looking for you, Dorothy. Shall I post your letter?”
She was still standing as if rooted to the spot, the letter in a sad plight.
“Oh, I'll not—not post it now. I should have sent the footman. Come with me and see mamma. I know she will be glad to have you here,” she hurried, in evident confusion. She bethought herself suddenly and made an effort to withdraw the letter from its rather conspicuous position. The hand containing it was drawn behind her back.
“That will be very nice of her. Better post the letter, though. Somebody's expecting it, you know. Hullo! That's not a nice way to treat a letter. Let me straighten it out for you.''
“Never mind, Phil—really, I don't care about it. You surprised me so tremendously that I fear I've ruined it. Now I shall have to write another.”
“Fiddlesticks! Send it as it is. The prince will blame the postoffice people,” cried he.
“It is not for the prince,” she cried, quickly, and then became more confused than ever. “Come to the house, Phil. You must tell me how you happen to be here.”
As they walked slowly to the Garrison home and mounted the steps, she religiously held the epistle where he could not regard it too closely should his curiosity overcome his prudence. They were ushered into the reception room, and she directed the footman to ask if Mrs. Garrison could see Mr. Quentin.
“Now, tell me all about it,” she said, taking a chair quite across the big room.
“There's nothing to tell,” he said. “I am in Brussels, and I thought I'd hunt you up.”
“But why didn't you write or wire me that you were coming? You haven't acted much like a friend,” she said, pointedly.
“Perhaps I wrote and never mailed the letter. Remember your experience just now. You still hold the unlucky note in your hand. Sometimes we think better of our intentions at the very instant when they are going into effect. It is very mysterious to me that you wouldn't mail that letter. I can only believe that you changed your mind when you saw me.”
“How absurd! As if seeing you could have anything to do with it!”
“You ought to tell me if my appearance here is liable to alter any plan that letter is intended to perfect. Don't let me be an inconvenience. You know I'd rather be anything than an inconvenience.”
“It doesn't matter in the least; really, it doesn't. Your coming—”
The footman appeared on the landing above at that instant and said something to her in a language Quentin could not understand. He afterward heard it was French. And he always had thought himself a pretty fair French scholar, too.
“Mamma has asked for me, Phil. Will you pardon me if I leave you alone for a moment?” she said, arising and starting toward the grand stairway. The letter, which she had forgotten for the moment, fell from her lap to the rug. In an instant he had stepped forward to pick it up. As he stooped she realized what had happened, and, with a frantic little cry, stooped also. Their heads were close together, but his hand was the first to touch the missive. It lay with the address upward, plain to the eye; he could not help seeing the name.
It was addressed to “Philip Quentin, Esq., care of the Earl of Saxondale, Park Lane, London, W. S.” Surprise stayed his fingers, and hers clutched the envelope ruthlessly. As they straightened themselves each was looking directly into the other's eyes. In hers there was shame, confusion, even guilt; in his, triumphant, tantalizing mirth.
“My letter, please,” he said, his voice trembling, he knew not why. His hand was extended. She drew suddenly away and a wave of scarlet crossed her face.
“What a stupid I was to drop it,” she cried, almost tearfully. Then she laughed as the true humor of the situation made itself felt in spite of consequences. “Isn't it too funny for anything?”
“I can't see anything funny in tampering with the mails. You have my letter, and I hope it won't be necessary for me to call in the officers of the law.”
“You don't expect me to give it to you?” she cried, holding it behind her.
“Most assuredly. If you don't, I'll ask Mrs. Garrison to command you to do so,” he threatened, eagerly. He would have given his head to read the contents of the letter that caused her so much concern. All sorts of conjectures were racing through his brain.
“Oh, please don't do that!” she begged, and he saw real supplication in her eyes. “I wouldn't give you the letter for the world, and I—I—well, don't you see that I am embarrassed?”
“Give me the letter,” he commanded, Sternly.
“Do you wish me to hate you?” she blazed.
“'Heaven forbid!”
“Then forget that your name is on this—this detestable envelope,” she cried, tearing the missive into pieces. He looked on in wonder, chagrin, disappointment.
“By George, Dorothy, that's downright cruel. It was intended for me—”
“You should thank me. I have only saved you the trouble of destroying it,” she said, smiling.
“I would have kept it forever,” he said, fervently.
“Here's a small bit of the envelope which you may keep as a souvenir. See, it has your name—'Philip'—on it. You shall have that much of the letter.” He took it rather gracelessly and, deliberately opening his watch, placed it inside the case. “I'd give $10,000 to know what that letter had to say to me.”
“You can never know,” she said, defiantly, from the bottom of the steps, “for I have forgotten the contents myself.”
She laughed as she ran upstairs, but he detected confusion in the tone, and the faint flush was still on her cheek. He sat down and wondered whether the contents would have pleased or displeased him. Philosophically he resolved that as long as he was never to know he might just as well look at it from a cheerful point of view; he would be pleased.