have asked me to be your wife. Let us go on as we have been—then I can consider you from an entirely different angle for a time. It may be that I shall discover that my feeling for you is more than friendship. I certainly have not thought for a moment that I loved you.”
This arrangement was perfectly satisfactory to Monsieur Thuran. He deeply regretted that he had been hasty, but he had loved her for so long a time, and so devotedly, that he thought that every one must know it.
“From the first time I saw you, Hazel,” he said, “I have loved you. I am willing to wait, for I am certain that so great and pure a love as mine will be rewarded. All that I care to know is that you do not love another. Will you tell me?”
“I have never been in love in my life,” she replied, and he was quite satisfied. On the way home that night he purchased a steam yacht, and built a million-dollar villa on the Black Sea.
The next day Hazel Strong enjoyed one of the happiest surprises of her life—she ran face to face upon Jane Porter as she was coming out of a jeweler’s shop.
“Why, Jane Porter!” she exclaimed. “Where in the world did you drop from? Why, I can’t believe my own eyes.”
“Well, of all things!” cried the equally astonished Jane. “And here I have been wasting whole reams of perfectly good imagination picturing you in Baltimore—the very idea!” And she threw her arms about her friend once more, and kissed her a dozen times.
By the time mutual explanations had been made Hazel knew that Lord Tennington’s yacht had put in at Cape Town for at least a week’s stay, and at the end of that time was to continue on her voyage—this time up the West Coast—and so back to England. “Where,” concluded Jane, “I am to be married.”
“Then you are not married yet?” asked Hazel.
“Not yet,” replied Jane, and then, quite irrelevantly, “I wish England were a million miles from here.”
Visits were exchanged between the yacht and Hazel’s relatives. Dinners were arranged, and trips into the surrounding country to entertain the visitors. Monsieur Thuran was a welcome guest at every function. He gave a dinner himself to the men of the party, and managed to ingratiate himself in the good will of Lord Tennington by many little acts of hospitality.
Monsieur Thuran had heard dropped a hint of something which might result from this unexpected visit of Lord Tennington’s yacht, and he wanted to be counted in on it. Once when he was alone with the Englishman he took occasion to make it quite plain that his engagement to Miss Strong was to be announced immediately upon their return to America. “But not a word of it, my dear Tennington—not a word of it.”
“Certainly, I quite understand, my dear fellow,” Tennington had replied. “But you are to be congratulated—ripping girl, don’t you know—really.”
The next day it came. Mrs. Strong, Hazel, and Monsieur Thuran were Lord Tennington’s guests aboard his yacht. Mrs. Strong had been telling them how much she had enjoyed her visit at Cape Town, and that she regretted that a letter just received from her attorneys in Baltimore had necessitated her cutting her visit shorter than they had intended.
“When do you sail?” asked Tennington.
“The first of the week, I think,” she replied. “Indeed?” exclaimed Monsieur Thuran. “I am very fortunate. I, too, have found that I must return at once, and now I shall have the honor of accompanying and serving you.”
“That is nice of you, Monsieur Thuran,” replied Mrs. Strong. “I am sure that we shall be glad to place ourselves under your protection.” But in the bottom of her heart was the wish that they might escape him. Why, she could not have told.
“By Jove!” ejaculated Lord Tennington, a moment later. “Bully idea, by Jove!”
“Yes, Tennington, of course,” ventured Clayton; “it must be a bully idea if you had it, but what the deuce is it? Goin’ to steam to China via the south pole?”
“Oh, I say now, Clayton,” returned Tennington, “you needn’t be so rough on a fellow just because you didn’t happen to suggest this trip yourself—you’ve acted a regular bounder ever since we sailed.
“No, sir,” he continued, “it’s a bully idea, and you’ll all say so. It’s to take Mrs. Strong and Miss Strong, and Thuran, too, if he’ll come, as far as England with us on the yacht. Now, isn’t that a corker?”
“Forgive me, Tenny, old boy,” cried Clayton. “It certainly IS a corking idea—I never should have suspected you of it. You’re quite sure it’s original, are you?”
“And we’ll sail the first of the week, or any other time that suits your convenience, Mrs. Strong,” concluded the big-hearted Englishman, as though the thing were all arranged except the sailing date.
“Mercy, Lord Tennington, you haven’t even given us an opportunity to thank you, much less decide whether we shall be able to accept your generous invitation,” said Mrs. Strong.
“Why, of course you’ll come,” responded Tennington. “We’ll make as good time as any passenger boat, and you’ll be fully as comfortable; and, anyway, we all want you, and won’t take no for an answer.”
And so it was settled that they should sail the following Monday.
Two days out the girls were sitting in Hazel’s cabin, looking at some prints she had had finished in Cape Town. They represented all the pictures she had taken since she had left America, and the girls were both engrossed in them, Jane asking many questions, and Hazel keeping up a perfect torrent of comment and explanation of the various scenes and people.
“And here,” she said suddenly, “here’s a man you know. Poor fellow, I have so often intended asking you about him, but I never have been able to think of it when we were together.” She was holding the little print so that Jane did not see the face of the man it portrayed.
“His name was John Caldwell,” continued Hazel. “Do you recall him? He said that he met you in America. He is an Englishman.”
“I do not recollect the name,” replied Jane. “Let me see the picture.” “The poor fellow was lost overboard on our trip down the coast,” she said, as she handed the print to Jane.
“Lost over—Why, Hazel, Hazel—don’t tell me that he is dead—drowned at sea! Hazel! Why don’t you say that you are joking!” And before the astonished Miss Strong could catch her Jane Porter had slipped to the floor in a swoon.
After Hazel had restored her chum to consciousness she sat looking at her for a long time before either spoke.
“I did not know, Jane,” said Hazel, in a constrained voice, “that you knew Mr. Caldwell so intimately that his death could prove such a shock to you.”
“John Caldwell?” questioned Miss Porter. “You do not mean to tell me that you do not know who this man was, Hazel?”
“Why, yes, Jane; I know perfectly well who he was—his name was John Caldwell; he was from London.”
“Oh, Hazel, I wish I could believe it,” moaned the girl. “I wish I could believe it, but those features are burned so deep into my memory and my heart that I should recognize them anywhere in the world from among a thousand
