third at a luncheon and tea party, and listen to a good deal of enigmatic conversation between you and the charming Lady Carey. This evening I made sure that I should be enlightened. But no! You have given me a wonderful dinner—from you I expected it. We have eaten terrapin, canvas-back duck, and many other things the names of which alone were known to me. But of the reason for which you have summoned me here—I know nothing. Not one word have you spoken. I am beginning to fear from your avoidance of the subject that there is some trouble between you and Lucille. I beg that you will set my anxiety at rest.”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“It is reasonable,” he said. “Look here!”
He turned the menu card round. On the back he had sketched some sort of a device with the pencil which he had picked up, and which instead of black-lead contained a peculiar shade of yellow crayon. Felix sat as though turned to stone.
“Try,” Mr. Sabin said smoothly, “and avoid that air of tragedy. Some of these good people might be curious.”
Felix leaned across the table. He pointed to the menu card.
“What does that mean?” he muttered.
Mr. Sabin contemplated it himself thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I rather thought that you might be able to explain that to me. I have an idea that there is a society in Europe—sort of aristocratic odd-fellows, you know—who had adopted it for their crest. Am I not right?”
Felix looked at him steadfastly.
“Tell me two things,” he said. “First, why you sent for me, and secondly, what do you mean—by that?”
“Lucille,” Mr. Sabin said, “has been taken away from me.”
“Lucille! Great God!”
“She has been taken away from me,” Mr. Sabin said, “without a single word of warning.”
Felix pointed to the menu card.
“By them?” he asked.
“By them. It was a month ago. Two days before my cable.”
Felix was silent for several moments. He had not the self-command of his companion, and he feared to trust himself to speech.
“She has been taken to Europe,” Mr. Sabin continued. “I do not know, I cannot even guess at the reason. She left no word. I have been warned not to follow her.”
“You obey?”
“I sail to-morrow.”
“And I?” Felix asked.
Mr. Sabin looked for, a moment at the drawing on the back of the menu card, and up at Felix. Felix shook his head.
“You must know,” he said, “that I am powerless.”
“You may be able to help me,” Mr. Sabin said, “without compromising yourself.”
“Impossible!” Felix declared. “But what did they want with Lucille?”
“That,” Mr. Sabin said, “is what I am desirous of knowing. It is what I trust that you, my dear Felix, may assist me to discover.”
“You are determined, then, to follow her?”
Mr. Sabin helped himself to a liqueur from the bottle by his side.
“My dear Felix,” he said reproachfully, “you should know me better than to ask me such a question.”
Felix moved uneasily in his chair.
“Of course,” he said, “it depends upon how much they want to keep you apart. But you know that you are running great risks?”
“Why, no,” Mr. Sabin said. “I scarcely thought that. I have understood that the society was by no means in its former flourishing condition.”
Felix laughed scornfully.
“They have never been,” he answered, “richer or more powerful. During the last twelve months they have been active in every part of Europe.”
Mr. Sabin’s face hardened.
“Very well!” he said. “We will try their strength.”
“We!” Felix laughed shortly. “You forget that my hands are tied. I cannot help you or Lucille. You must know that.”
“You cannot interfere directly,” Mr. Sabin admitted. “Yet you are Lucille’s brother, and I am forced to appeal to you. If you will be my companion for a little while I think I can show you how you can help Lucille at any rate, and yet run no risk.”
The little party at the next table were breaking up at last. Lady Carey, pale and bored, with tired, swollen eyes—they were always a little prominent—rose languidly and began to gather together her belongings. As she did so she looked over the back of her chair and met Mr. Sabin’s eyes. He rose at once and bowed. She cast a quick sidelong glance at her companions, which he at once understood.
“I have the honour, Lady Carey,” he said, “of recalling myself to your recollection. We met in Paris and London not so very many years ago. You perhaps remember the cardinal’s dinner?”
A slight smile flickered upon her lips. The man’s adroitness always excited her admiration.
“I remember it perfectly, and you, Duke,” she answered. “Have you made your home on this side of the water?”
Mr. Sabin shook his head slowly.
“Home!” he repeated. “Ah, I was always a bird of passage, you remember. Yet I have spent three very delightful years in this country.”
“And I,” she said, lowering her tone and leaning towards him, “one very stupid, idiotic day.”
Mr. Sabin assumed the look of a man who denies any personal responsibility in an unfortunate happening.
“It was regrettable,” he murmured, “but I assure you that it was unavoidable. Lucille’s brother must have a certain claim upon me, and it was his first day in America.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she turned abruptly towards the door. Her friends were already on the way.
“Come with me,” she said. “I want to speak to you.”
He followed her out into the lobby. Felix came a few paces behind. The restaurant was still full of people, the hum of conversation almost drowning the music. Every one glanced curiously at Lady Carey, who was a famous woman. She carried herself with a certain insolent indifference, the national deportment of her sex and rank. The women whispered together that she was “very English.”
In the lobby she turned suddenly upon Mr. Sabin.
“Will you take me back to my hotel?” she asked pointedly.
“I
