It was a bad night in London, not wild or turbulent, but swathed to the eyes like an Eastern woman in a soft grey garment of fog. It engulfed the walled canyons of the city through which the traffic had roared all day, plugged up the maze of dark side streets, and blotted out the open squares. Close to the ground it was thick, viscous, impenetrable, so that one could not see a yard ahead, and walked ghostlike, adventuring into a strange world.
Occasionally it dispersed. In front of the opera house, numbers of arc-lights wrought a wavering mist-hung yellow square, into which a constant line of vehicles like monstrous shiny bugs emerged from the outer nowhere, disgorged their contents, and eclipsed again. And pedestrians in gay processional streamed across the ruddy glistening patch like figures on a slide.
Conspicuous in the shifting throng was a boy, ostensibly selling violets, but with a keen eye upon the arriving vehicles. Suddenly he darted to the curb, where an electric coupe had just drawn up. A man alighted heavily, and turned to assist a young woman.
For an instant the lad’s attention was deflected by the radiant vision. The girl, wrapped in a voluminous cloak of ivory colour, was tall and slim, with soft white throat and graceful neck; her eyes under shadowy lashes were a little narrow, but blue as autumn mist, and sparkling now with amusement.
“Watch your steps, auntie,” she warned laughingly, as a plump elderly little lady descended stiffly from the coupe. “These London fogs are dangerous.”
The boy stood staring at her, his feet as helpless as if they had taken root in the ground. Suddenly he remembered his mission. His native impudence reasserted itself, and he started forward.
“Voylets, lidy? Wear your colours. You ain’t allowed to trot without.”
The girl gazed at him, her blue eyes bright as stars on a windy night. An enchanting dimple twinkled about her curved lips in gay hide-and-seek, and when she laughed, fled upward to her eyes.
“Father,” she said, “will you buy my colours from this bold sporting gentleman?”
As the man fumbled in an inner pocket for change, the lad took a swift inventory. The face, beneath the tall hat, was a powerful oval, paste-coloured, with thin lips, and heavy lines from nostril to jaw. The eyes were close-set and of a turbid grey.
“It’s him,” the boy assured himself, and opened his mouth to speak.
“So you are a sporting man,” the girl rallied him gaily, adjusting the flowers.
The boy nodded, responding instantly to her mood.
“Only,” he swept her with shrewd, appraising eyes, that noted every detail of her delicate beauty and sumptuousness, “I don’t trot in the two-minute class myself.”
The girl laughed a clear silvery peal; and turned impulsively to the young man in evening dress who had just dismissed his hansom and joined the group.
It was the diversion the boy had prayed for. He took a quick step toward the older man.
“N.,” he said in a soft but distinct undertone. The man’s face blanched suddenly, and a coin which he held in his large, white-gloved palm, slipped jingling to the pavement.
The young messenger stooped and caught it up dextrously.
“N.,” he whispered again, insistently.
“H.,” the answer came hoarsely. The man’s lips trembled.
“C.,” finished the boy promptly and with satisfaction. Under cover of returning the coin, he thrust a slip of white paper into the other’s hand. Then he wheeled, ducked to the girl with a gay little swagger of impudence, threw a lightning glance of scrutiny at her young escort, and turning, was lost in the throng.
The whole incident occupied less than a minute, and presently the four were seated in their box, and the throbbing strains from the overture of I Pagliacci came floating up to them.
“I wish I were a little street gamin in London,” said the girl pensively, fingering the violets at her corsage. “Think of the adventures! Don’t you, Cord?”
“Don’t I wish you were?” Cord Van Ingen looked across at her with smiling significant eyes, which brought a flush to her cheeks.
“No,” he said softly, “I do not!”
The girl laughed at him and shrugged her round white shoulders.
“For a young diplomat, Cord, you are too obvious — too delightfully verdant. You should study indirection, subtlety, finesse — study Poltavo!” At the name the boy’s brow darkened.
“Study the devil!” he muttered under his breath.
“That too, for a diplomat, is necessary!” she murmured sweetly.
“He isn’t coming here tonight?” Van Ingen asked in aggrieved tones.
The girl nodded, her eyes dancing with laughter.
“What you can see in that man, Doris,” he protested, “passes me! I’ll bet you anything you like that the fellow’s a rogue! A smooth, soft-smiling rascal! Lady Dinsmore,” he appealed to the older woman, “do you like him?”
“Oh, don’t ask Aunt Patricia!” cried the girl.
“She thinks him quite the most fascinating man in London. Don’t deny it, auntie!”
“I shan’t,” said that lady calmly, “for it’s true! Count Poltavo,” she paused to inspect through her lorgnettes some newcomers in the opposite box, “Count Poltavo is the only interesting man in London. He is a genius.” She shut her lorgnettes with a snap. “It delights me to talk with him. He smiles and murmurs gay witticisms and quotes Talleyrand and Luculhis, and all the while in the back of his head, quite out of reach, his real opinions of you are being tabulated and ranged neatly in a row, like bottles on a shelf.”
“I’d like to take down some of those bottles,” said Doris thoughtfully. “Maybe some day I shall.”
“They’re probably labelled poison,” remarked Van Ingen, a little viciously. He looked at the girl with a growing sense of injury. Of late she had seemed absolutely changed toward him; and from being his dear friend, his childhood’s mate, with established intimacies, she had turned before his very. eyes into an alien, almost an enemy, more beautiful than ever, to be true, but perverse, mocking, impish. She flouted him for his youth, his bluntness, his guileless transparency. But hardest of all to bear was the delicate derision with which she treated his awkward attempts to express his passion for her, to speak of the fever which had taken possession of him, almost against his will, and which at sight of her throbbed madly at his wrists and temples. And now, he reflected bitterly, with this velvet fop of a count looming up as a possible rival, with his savoir faire, and his absurd penchant for literature and art, what chance had he, a plain American, against such odds? — unless, as he profoundly believed, the chap was a crook. He determined to sound her father.
“Mr. Grayson,” he asked aloud, “what do you think — halloo!” He sprang up suddenly and thrust out a supporting arm.
Grayson had risen, and stood swaying slightly upon his feet. He was
