he took the missive, scenting a romance, and laughingly struck a match. It contained but a single pencilled line, written, evidently, in great agitation, for the characters were scarcely legible. The match burned down and scorched his fingers. He lit another unsteadily, and stared again, his face in the small circle of light pallid with excitement.
“I will see you in the garden at nine. DORIS.”
Doris, whom he had believed to be with Lady Dinsmore on the Riviera, in this desolate, wind-raked little Spanish town? What was the meaning of it? He turned to question the old crone, but she had slid noiselessly into the gloom whence she had come, and he was left standing before the hotel with only the scrap of white paper to show that the entire incident was not the wild imagining of an overwrought brain.
He bent his eyes to it again, and especially to the signature. There could be no mistake. That funny little D of Doris, with its childish curl at the end, he would know the world around. It smote him with a strong emotion and gave him a sense of reality. Doris, then, was actually near at hand, breathing the same warm night air, watching the same moon, high and pale, sailing across the sky. He turned back to the house, and after a casual word with his host, a tall, spare-looking man, with a drooping moustache and a face as sour as the vintages he sold to his guests, he went down the short flight of steps into the garden. The bell of the campanile somewhere in the distance struck the four quarters, and then chimed eight silver strokes. An hour to wait. He flung himself upon a bench at the extreme end of the garden, beneath a pomegranate tree. As he leaned back, a shower of the scarlet flowers fell about him. Not far down the street, perhaps beneath some window, a youth’s voice could be heard, sweetened by distance, singing “La Paloma.” Cord wondered idly if it were another tryst.
He sprang up, mastered by impatience, and walked about, whistling the same air softly. Minutes passed. Cord wondered how she would come. The only entrance to the enclosed garden which he had remarked lay through the lobby of the hotel. He frowned at the thought of her meeting the cold, leering stare of his host, and decided to meet her upon the street. With a foot upon the lower step, he paused and lifted his head, alert, listening. Behind him, at the end of the garden, coming from the neighbourhood of the bench, he had heard the sound of an unmistakable click. He sprang toward the sound, his blood racing tumultuously through his veins.
Two shadows detached themselves from the deeper gloom of the garden wall, and stood forth uncertainly. One of the shadows held out a hand.
“Cord!” she murmured. She pushed back the enveloping folds of the lace mantilla about her head. It fell away upon her shoulders, and the pale beams of the moon shone full upon her face. It was Doris.
At sight of her, the exclamation of joy died on Van Ingen’s lips. He stood rooted to the spot by the startling change in her countenance. Her blue eyes, once so laughing, looked out from black hollows, her cheeks were pale and slightly drawn, and her mouth colourless. Fear, depression, misery, spoke in every drooping line of her figure.
“Well?” she said at last, tremulously. “You — are not glad to see me?”
With a hoarse little cry, he took her into his arms, and held her close.
“My Doris!” he whispered. “What have they done to you?”
She trembled in the close embrace, and clung to him.
“I — I have been afraid,” she said simply, “for so many endless days! So many long white nights! I thought at times I should go mad at the horror of it! And when I heard that you were here, near me, in Jerez, I decided to risk all. And so I — I came with Maria, who knows the way,” she nodded toward the other figure which had withdrawn into the shadows, “to — to see you.”
“To see me?” he repeated in a low voice, as one cons a difficult lesson. “You risked all, to see me?”
She nodded, and raised her eyes to his. “But if you are not glad to see me?” She strove gently to disengage herself.
He held her fast. At the moment, as if the heavens had opened wide, a great light broke in upon him. He stared at the face lying against his shoulder, flushed, eager, incredulous. Her soft eyelids were closed. Love lay upon them like a dream, and upon the faintly smiling lips. Her breath mounted to his nostrils like delicate incense. He bent lower and lower.
“Open your eyes, darling!” he entreated. She obeyed — their lips met. He kissed her again.
A slight sound came from the shadows. Doris broke from him, breathless, but unashamed, a newfound joy in her eyes.
“I had almost forgot!” she exclaimed. “I came to tell you something — something important.” Cord laughed.
“You have told it already!” he said. “You have been chanting wonderful, thrilling, cosmic things to me the last ten minutes!”
He sat down and drew her beside him on the bench.
“Tell me — everything,” he said gravely. She eased herself within the circle of his arm.
“First, I wish you to take a message to my aunt. Tell her I am well and happy — now!”
“Lady Dinsmore?” he asked in surprise. “Is she not with you?”
She shook her head. “Aunt Patricia is in Biarritz,” she replied in a low tone. “I — I am with my father.” Fear had crept into her voice again.
“That is what I came to tell you,” she continued.
“My aunt does not understand — she would have me desert my father. But I shall stay with him to the end.
“And — Poltavo?” Van Ingen recalled her letter, and jealousy started up within him.
“Count Poltavo is with us — at present,” she answered in a constrained voice. “How long he will remain—”
“Tell me everything, darling!” he pleaded.
“I can tell you — nothing!” she said passionately, her breast heaving. “Save only that I shall be glad, glad, when this terrible search is completed. So many lives—” For the first time, she broke down completely, and turning from him, sobbed bitterly, her face hidden in her hands. She rocked back and forth in a paroxysm of grief. He bent over her, in an agony of distress, and put his arms about her.
“Cord!” The voice came to him, strangled with sobs.
“Darling?” his mouth was close to her lips.
“Promise me that you will give it up?”
“No.”
“But they will kill you — too!” she moaned.
“Not me!” he said cheerfully. “Not after this!” He raised her tearful face to his. “Tell me, at least, where a letter may find you.”
“I shall be with my father,” she replied evasively. “Count Poltavo and Mr. Baggin are in open rupture,” she hurried on. “Each is fighting for mastery. Count Poltavo has the brains, but Baggin has the money. Between them, they tear my poor father to pieces.”
“And you!” he cried in a choked, angry voice.
“They
