The Bond of Black. Le Queux William

but in response to a second and more pressing letter I had received a telegram, and now stood impatient for her coming.

      Outside, it was growing gloomy. The matinée at the Garrick Theatre was over, and the afternoon playgoers had all gone their various ways, while the long string of light carts belonging to the Pall Mall Gazette stood opposite, ready to distribute the special edition of that journal in every part of London. The wind blew gustily, and the people passing were compelled to clutch their hats. Inside, however, a bright fire burned, and I had set my easiest chair ready for the reception of the dainty girl who held me beneath her spell.

      Even at that moment I recollected Muriel, but cast her out of my thoughts when I reflected upon Aline’s bewitching beauty.

      Moments passed as hours. In the darkening day I stood watching for her, but saw no sign, until I began to fear she would disappoint me. Indeed, the clock on the mantel-shelf, the little timepiece which I had carried on all my travels, had already struck five, whereas the hour she had appointed was half-past four.

      Suddenly, however, the door opening caused me to turn, and my pretty companion of that night was ushered in by Simes.

      “I’m late,” she said apologetically. “I trust you will forgive me.”

      “It is a lady’s privilege to be late,” I responded, taking her hand, and welcoming her gladly.

      She took the chair at my invitation, and I saw that she was dressed extremely plainly, wearing no ornaments. The dress was not the same she had worn when we had met, but another of more funereal aspect. Yet she was dainty and chic from her large black hat, which well suited her pale, innocent type of beauty, down to her tiny, patent-leather shoe. As she placed her foot out upon the footstool I did not fail to notice how neat was the ankle encased in its black silk stocking, or how small was the little pointed shoe.

      “Why did you ask me to come here?” she asked, with a slightly nervous laugh when, at my suggestion, she had drawn off her gloves.

      “Because I did not intend that we should drift apart altogether,” I answered. “If you had refused, I should have come to you.”

      “At Ellerdale Road?” she exclaimed in alarm.

      “Yes; why not? Is your aunt such a terrible person?”

      “No,” she exclaimed in all seriousness. “Promise me you will not seek me – never.”

      “I can scarcely promise that,” I laughed. “But why were you so reluctant to come here again?” I inquired.

      “Because I had no desire to cause you any unnecessary worry,” she replied.

      “Unnecessary worry? What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.

      But she only laughed, without giving me any satisfactory answer.

      “I’m extremely pleased to see you,” I said, and in response to my summons Simes entered with the tea, which she poured out, gracefully handing me my cup.

      “I’m of course very pleased to come and see you like this,” she said when my man had gone; “but if my aunt knew, she wouldn’t like it.”

      “I suppose she was concerned about you the other night, wasn’t she?”

      “Oh yes,” she replied with a smile. “We’ve often laughed over my absurd ignorance of London.”

      “Do you intend to live always with your aunt?”

      “Ah, I do not know. Unfortunately there are some in whose footsteps evil always follows; some upon whom the shadow of sin for ever falls,” and she sighed as she added, “I am one of those.”

      I glanced across at her in surprise. She was holding her cup in her hand, and her face was pale and agitated, as though the confession had involuntarily escaped her.

      “I don’t understand?” I said, puzzled. “Are you a fatalist?”

      “I’m not quite certain,” she answered, in an undecided tone. “As I have already told you, I hesitated to visit you because of the evil which I bring upon those who are my friends.”

      “But explain to me,” I exclaimed, interested. “Of what nature is this evil? It is surely not inevitable?”

      “Yes,” she responded, in a calm, low voice, “it is inevitable. You have been very kind to me, therefore I have no desire to cause you any unhappiness.”

      “I really can’t help thinking that you view things rather gloomily,” I said, in as irresponsible a tone as I could.

      “I only tell you that which is the truth. Some persons have a faculty for working evil, even when they intend to do good. They are the accursed among their fellows.”

      Her observation was an extraordinary one, inasmuch as more than one great scientist has put forward a similar theory, although the cause of the evil influence which such persons are able to exercise has never been discovered.

      About her face was nothing evil, nothing crafty, nothing to lead one to suspect that she was not what she seemed – pure, innocent, and womanly. Indeed, as she sat before me, I felt inclined to laugh at her assertion as some absurd fantasy of the imagination. Surely no evil could lurk behind such a face as hers?

      “You are not one of the accursed,” I protested, smiling.

      “But I am!” she answered, looking me straight in the face. Then, starting forward, she exclaimed, “Oh! why did you press me to come here, to you?”

      “Because I count you among my friends,” I responded. “To see me and drink a cup of tea can surely do no harm, either to you or to me.”

      “But it will!” she cried in agitation. “Have I not told you that evil follows in my footsteps – that those who are my friends always suffer the penalty of my friendship?”

      “You speak like a prophetess,” I laughed.

      “Ah! you don’t believe me!” she exclaimed. “I see you don’t. You will never believe until the hideous truth is forced upon you.”

      “No,” I said, “I don’t believe. Let us talk of something else, Aline – if I may be permitted to call you by your Christian name?”

      “You have called me by that name already without permission,” she laughed gaily, her manner instantly changing. “It would be ungenerous of me to object, would it not?”

      “You are extremely philosophical,” I observed, handing her my cup to be refilled.

      “I’m afraid you must have formed a very curious opinion of me,” she replied.

      “You seem to have no inclination to tell me anything of yourself,” I said. “I fancy I have told you all about myself worth knowing, but you will tell me nothing in exchange.”

      “Why should you desire to know? I cannot interest you more than a mere passing acquaintance, to be entertained to-day and forgotten to-morrow.”

      “No, not forgotten,” I said reproachfully. “You may forget me, but I shall never forget our meeting the other night.”

      “It will be best if you do forget me,” she declared.

      “But I cannot!” I declared passionately, bending and looking straight into her beautiful countenance.

      “I shall never forget.”

      “Because my face interests you, you are fascinated! Come, admit the truth,” she said, with a plain straightforwardness that somewhat took me aback.

      “Yes,” I said. “That’s the truth. I freely admit it.”

      She laughed a light, merry, tantalising laugh, as if ridiculing such an idea. Her face at that instant seemed more attractive than ever it appeared before; her smiling lips, half-parted, seemed pouted, inviting me to kiss them.

      “Why should a man be attracted by a woman’s face?” she argued, growing suddenly serious again. “He should judge her by her manner, her thoughts, her womanly feeling, and her absence of that masculine affectation which