own thoughts, while Gurdon’s eyes travelled quickly between the table where the millionaire sat and the deep armchair, in which the invalid lay huddled; and Venner now saw that the cripple on the opposite side of the room was regarding Fenwick and his companion with the intentness of a cat watching a mouse.
Dinner had now come pretty well to an end, and the coffee and liqueurs were going round. A cup was placed before Fenwick, who turned to one of the waiters with a quick order which the latter hastened to obey. The order was given so clearly that Gurdon could hear distinctly what it was. He had asked for a light, wherewith to burn the glass of Curacoa which he intended to take, foreign fashion, in his coffee.
“And don’t forget to bring me a wooden match,” he commanded. “Household matches. Last night one of your men brought me a vesta.”
The waiter hurried off to execute his commission, but his intention was anticipated by another waiter who had apparently been doing nothing and hanging about in the background. The second waiter was a small, lithe man, with beady, black eyes and curly hair. For some reason or other, Gurdon noticed him particularly; then he saw a strange thing happen. The little waiter with the snaky hair glanced swiftly across the room in the direction of the cripple huddled up in the armchair. Just as if he had been waiting for a signal, the invalid stretched out one of his long arms, and laid his fingers significantly on the tiny silver box he had deposited on the table some little time before. The small waiter went across the room and deliberately lifted the silver box from the table. He then walked briskly across to where the millionaire was seated, placed the box close to his elbow, and vanished. He seemed to fairly race down the room until he was lost in a pile of palms which masked the door. Gurdon had followed all this with the deepest possible interest. Venner sat there, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings. His head was on his hands, and his mind was apparently far away. Therefore, Gurdon was left entirely to himself, to study the strange things that were going on around him. His whole attention was now concentrated upon Fenwick, who presently tilted his glass of Curacoa dexterously into his coffee cup, and then stretched out his hand for the silver match box by his side. He was still talking to his companion while he fumbled for a match without looking at the little case in his hand. Suddenly he ceased to speak, his black eyes rivetted on the box. It fell from his fingers as if it had contained some poisonous insect, and he rose to his feet with a sudden scream that could be heard all over the room.
There was a quick hush in the conversation, and every head was turned in the direction of the millionaire’s table. Practically every diner there knew who the man with the yellow head was, so that the startling interruption was all the more unexpected. Once again the frightened cry rang out, and then Fenwick stood, gazing with horrified eyes and white, ghastly face at the innocent looking little box on the table.
“Who brought this here?” he screamed. “Bring that waiter here. Find him at once. Find him at once, I say. A little man with beady eyes and hair like rats’ tails.”
The head waiter bustled up, full of importance; but it was in vain that he asked for some explanation of what had happened. All Fenwick could do was to stand there gesticulating and calling aloud for the production of the erring waiter.
“But I assure you, sir,” the head waiter said, “we have no waiter here who answers to the description of the man you mention. They are all here now, every waiter who has entered the room to-night. If you will be so good as to pick out the one who has offended you—”
Fenwick’s startled, bloodshot eyes ranged slowly over the array of waiters which had been gathered for his inspection round his table. Presently he shook his head with an impatient gesture.
“I tell you, he is not here,” he cried. “The man is not here. He is quite small, with very queer, black hair.”
The head waiter was equally positive in his assurance. Louder rose the angry voice of the millionaire, till at length Venner was aroused from his reverie and looked up to Gurdon to know what was going on. The latter explained as far as possible, not omitting to describe the strange matter of the silver box. Venner smiled with the air of a man who could say a great deal if he chose.
“It is all part of the programme,” he said. “That will come in my story later on. But what puzzles me is where that handsome cripple comes in. The mystery deepens.”
By this time Fenwick’s protestations had grown weaker. He seemed to ramble on in a mixture of English and Portuguese which was exceedingly puzzling to the head waiter, who still was utterly in the dark as to the cause of offence. Most of the diners had gathered round the millionaire’s table with polite curiosity, and sundry offers of assistance.
“I think we had better get to our own room,” a sweet, gentle voice said, as the tall, fair girl by Fenwick’s side rose and moved in the direction of the door. It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Venner had risen at the same time. As he strode from his own table, he came face to face with the girl who stood there watching him with something like pain in her blue eyes. Just for an instant she staggered back, and apparently would have fallen had not Venner placed his arm about her waist. In the strange confusion caused by the unexpected disturbance, nobody had noticed this besides Gurdon, who promptly rose to the occasion.
“You had better take the lady as far as her own rooms,” he said. “This business has evidently been too much for her. Meanwhile, I will see what I can do for Mr. Fenwick.”
Venner shot his friend a glance of gratitude. He did not hesitate for a moment; he saw that the girl by his side was quite incapable of offering any objections for the present. In his own strong, masterful way, he drew the girl’s hand under his arm, and fairly dragged her from the room into the comparative silence and seclusion of the corridor beyond.
“Which way do we go?” he asked.
“The Grand Staircase,” the girl replied faintly. “It is on the first floor. But you must not come with me, you must come no further. It would be madness for him to know that we are together.”
“He will not come just yet,” Venner replied. “My friend knows something of my story, and he will do his best to get us five minutes together. You have heard me speak of Jim Gurdon before.”
“But it is madness,” the girl whispered. “You know how dangerous it is. Oh, Gerald, what must you think of me when—”
“I swear to you that I think nothing of you that is unkind or ungenerous,” Venner protested. “By a cruel stroke of fate we were parted at the very moment when our happiness seemed most complete. Why you left me in the strange way you did, I have never yet learned. In your letter to me you told me you were bound to act as you did, and I believed you implicitly. How many men in similar circumstances would have behaved as I did? How many men would have gone on honoring a wife who betrayed her husband as you betrayed me? And yet, as I stand here at this moment, looking into your eyes, I feel certain that you are the same sweet and innocent girl who did me the happiness to become my wife.”
The beautiful face quivered, and the blue eyes filled with tears. Her trembling hand lay on Venner’s arm for a moment; then he caught the girl to his side and kissed her passionately.
“I thank you for those words,” she whispered. “From the bottom of my heart I thank you. If you only knew what I have suffered, if you only knew the terrible pressure that is put upon me;—and it seemed to me that I was acting for the best. I hoped, too, that you would go away and forget me; that in the course of time I should be nothing more than a memory to you. And yet, in my heart, I always felt that we should meet again. Is it not strange that we should come together like this?”
“I do not see that it is in the least strange,” Venner replied, “considering that I have been
