The Broken Thread. Le Queux William

to enter the rather dimly-lit café and call for a cognac. He approached the entrance, and his hand was upon the handle of the door, when, from apparently nowhere, the figure of a man appeared. He was dressed in a long coat, loose at the neck, displaying a flowing necktie or cravat of black. His wide-brimmed black hat covered his countenance, and his general appearance suggested a denizen of the Latin quarter of Paris. In a soft undertone he lisped: “Pardon, monsieur! mademoiselle,” or as he pronounced it, “mams’elle arrivera tout à l’heure. Vous voulez attendre, monsieur?”

      Raife’s knowledge of French was superior to his knowledge of Italian, and he turned to talk to this person who seemed to have sprung from nowhere. His movement must have been leisurely, for when he looked around the stranger had disappeared. The message was simple enough. “Mademoiselle will arrive presently. Will you wait, sir?” What did all this mystery mean? Why was a little Italian girl sent to lead him to a place of appointment with a lady who sent a cryptic message written without a signature. Who was the person, apparently an Apache, or from the Latin quarter of Paris, who sprang from nowhere and disappeared into space? As Raife contemplated these matters, the cloaked figure of a woman came round the corner of the street.

      “Ah! Sir Raife! I hope I have not kept you waiting long. I could not get here quicker.” She was out of breath, and her words came quickly.

      Raife at once recognised the voice and form of Gilda. Her form was disguised in the long rich cloak that she wore, and her face was hidden by a large hat, from which a deep veil was draped around her face, but her rich, low, contralto voice was evident – especially to Raife.

      All there was of mistrust, of suspicion, indignation or resentment disappeared, as she placed her hand upon his arm, looking up at him through the folds of her deep veil. Her eyes appealed to him.

      “I tried to get here before, but they wouldn’t let me get away. Of course, you got my message.”

      In spite of her extraordinary behaviour that afternoon, a few hours ago only, everything seemed quite right and natural to Raife now he heard her voice, and saw those eyes, and felt the soft touch upon his arm. In an absent-minded way he said: “Oh, yes! I got your message and I came at once. Where shall we go? I do want to talk to you.” Then collecting his scattered senses, he asked a dozen questions rapidly. “Who was the Apache fellow? Why did you snub me this afternoon? What was the meaning of the note you left for me at the ‘Queen’s,’ Southport? Oh, Gilda, tell me what is the meaning of all this mystery! If there is any trouble let me help you.”

      The girl, with a sob, replied: “Sir Raife, don’t ask me any questions. Trust me. It is very hard for me – but don’t ask questions. Let us walk back along the Promenade des Anglais.” Then, dreamily, as if to herself, she added: “Yes – the promenade of the English. We are English. At least, there is no doubt that you are. I sometimes wonder what I am.”

      They walked together until they reached the promenade again. There, under the light of a street-lamp, they renewed their talk. He, still interrogative, asked questions to which she would or could not reply. All she would say was, “Please! Please, don’t ask me questions. Just trust me,” and, with a soft tremor in her tones, she added: “Will you be my friend?”

      Raife’s conquest was complete. All sense of mistrust had disappeared with the first seductive notes of the voice he had longed to hear again, and, to-night, that voice was his.

      “I trust you. I trust you implicitly, and I will be your friend.”

      For good or evil his word was given, and the word of a Remington was never lightly given. Passion or love, call it what you will, has led men and women into strangely incongruous and many dangerous situations. This promise, given with the impetuosity of youth aglow and veins afire, might lead to tragic disaster or the consummation of a pure and natural union.

      The flow of lover’s conversation is frequently intermittent, and sometimes erratic, and now there was a lull in the talk. At length Gilda said: “I read in the newspapers that your father was killed – or murdered by an armed burglar.” Raife shuddered at the allusion. Continuing, she added: “Did you see the body of the murderer?”

      Raife said: “Oh, yes! I saw the body of the brute.”

      “What was he like?”

      “He didn’t look much like a burglar. At least, not like the burglars we’ve read about in books and that sort of thing.”

      “How sad it must have been for you all – for you – and your mother.”

      There was a ring of sympathy in her voice, and Raife felt grateful for the words of comfort.

      Then Gilda asked, “Was he well-dressed, then?”

      “Oh, yes! Quite well-dressed, and he had money in his pockets and wore jewellery.”

      “How strange,” she added, with a slight quiver. “What sort of jewellery?”

      “Oh, the usual sort of things, you know – a watch and chain and a plain signet ring! He also had a curious kind of charm hanging by a chain around his neck. I took possession of that, hoping some day it might serve as a clue. He was a strange-looking chap, and I would like to find out who he was. In fact the guv’nor, before he died, said something about a ‘trap,’ and other things of that sort, and I’d like to discover what it’s all about. There’s some deep mystery surrounding the whole affair.” Gilda shivered, and said: “Isn’t it terrible!” and, after a pause, added: “It’s getting cool to-night. Shall we walk towards the hotel?”

      As they walked towards the Hôtel Royal, Raife produced from his pocket the charm he had removed from the assassin’s neck, and, handing it to Gilda for her inspection, said: “Here’s the charm. It seems to be Egyptian, a figure of the goddess Isis, and there are all sorts of queer hieroglyphics on the back of it. Queer-looking thing for a burglar to wear, isn’t it?”

      Gilda took the charm and her eyes sparkled as she held it tenderly, and seemed almost to fondle it. Then, nervously, and sharply, she said: “Oh, how interesting! I love any thing Egyptian, and I have quite a lot of scarabs. Do give this to me as a token of your friendship. It will bring me luck. Fancy it having been worn by a murderer. I shall go to the tables at Monte Carlo, and if you give it to me, it will be my mascot.”

      Raife was very much in love with Gilda, and he would give his life, willingly, to serve her. The spirit of mystery seemed to enshroud this delicate, fragile girl. Why should she be fascinated by this gruesome relic of his father’s murder? He did not reply for a minute or so. Gilda handed back the charm, saying: “No, you don’t want to give it to me. And yet, how I feel I would like to own it. I don’t know why, but it fascinates me.”

      “Take it, Gilda,” he eventually said, fondly calling her by her Christian name, “and I hope it will bring you a lot of luck.”

      Gilda placed the quaint little charm with the thin gold chain in her reticule.

      They had now reached the entrance of the Hôtel Royal, and together they entered. Raife cast an eager glance around. To his great relief, Lady Remington, for it was late, had retired to rest.

      Gilda whispered: “Let’s go up the staircase. There’s a quiet alcove there, and my uncle has gone to his room.”

      In the brilliantly-lit foyer of the hotel an orchestra was discoursing music to a crowd of visitors, who lounged or promenaded at their sweet will. Many eyes were turned to the handsome couple as they ascended the richly-carpeted staircase in search of that quiet alcove which promised much to Raife, and perhaps some pleasure to the mysterious young girl who accompanied him.