The Red Symbol. Ironside John

that I would have to leave London within forty-eight hours. She imparted the news to Jim in a voice that must have reached Anne’s ears distinctly; but she made no sign.

      Was she going to continue my punishment right through the evening? It looked like it. If I could only have speech with her for one minute I would win her forgiveness!

      My opportunity came at last, when, after the toast of “the King,” chairs were pushed back and people formed themselves into groups.

      A pretty woman at the next table—how I blessed her in my heart!—summoned Cassavetti to her side, and I boldly took the place he vacated.

      Anne flashed a smile at me,—a real smile this time,—and said demurely:

      “So you’re not going to sulk all the evening—Maurice?”

      This was carrying war into the opposite camp with a vengeance; but that was Anne’s way.

      I expect Jim Cayley set me down as a poor-spirited skunk, for showing no resentment; but I certainly felt none now. Anne was not a girl whom one could judge by ordinary standards. Besides, I loved her; and she knew well that one smile, one gracious word, would compensate for all past capricious unkindness. Yes, she must have known that; too well, perhaps, just then.

      “I told the truth just now, though not all of it,” I said, in a rapid undertone.

      “I knew you were keeping something back,” she declared merrily. “And now you have taken your punishment, sir, you may give your full explanation.”

      “I can’t here; I must see you alone. It is something very serious,—something that concerns you nearly.”

      “Me! But what about your mysterious old man?”

      “It concerns him, too—both of you—”

      Even as I spoke, once more the incredibility of any connection between this glorious creature and that poor, starved, half-demented wreck of humanity, struck me afresh.

      “But I can’t tell you now, as I said, and—hush—don’t let him hear; and beware of him, I implore you. No, it’s not mere jealousy,—though I can’t explain, here.” I had indicated Cassavetti with a scarcely perceptible gesture, for I knew that, though he was still talking to the pretty woman in black, he was furtively watching us.

      A curious expression crossed Anne’s mobile face as she glanced across at him, from under her long lashes.

      But her next words, spoken aloud, had no reference to my warning.

      “Is it true that you are leaving town at once?”

      “Yes. I may come to see you to-morrow?”

      “Come as early as you like—in reason.”

      That was all, for Cassavetti rejoined us, dragging up a chair in place of the one I had appropriated.

      “So you and Mr. Wynn are neighbors,” she said gaily. “Though he never told me so.”

      “Doubtless he considered me too insignificant,” replied Cassavetti, suavely enough, though I felt, rather than saw, that he eyed me malignantly.

      “Oh, you are not in the least insignificant, though you are exasperatingly—how shall I put it?—opinionated,” she retorted, and turned to me. “Mr. Cassavetti has accused me of being a Russian.”

      “Not accused—complimented,” he interpolated, with a deprecatory bow.

      “You see?” Anne appealed to me in the same light tone, but our eyes met in a significant glance, and I knew that she had understood my warning, perhaps far better than I did myself; for after all I had been guided by instinct rather than knowledge when I uttered it.

      “I have told him that I have never been in Russia,” she continued, “and he is rude enough to disbelieve a lady!”

      “I protest—and apologize also,” asserted Cassavetti, “though you are smoking a Russian cigarette.”

      “As two-thirds of the women here are doing. The others are non-smoking frumps,” she laughed.

      “But you smoke them with such a singular grace.”

      The words and tone were courtier-like, but their inference was unmistakable. I could have killed him for it! A swift glance from Anne commanded silence and self-restraint.

      “You are a flatterer, Mr. Cassavetti,” she said in mock reproof. “Come along, good people; there’s plenty of room here!” as other acquaintances joined us. “Oh, some one’s going to recite—hush!”

      The next hour or so passed pleasantly, and all too quickly. Anne was the centre of a merry group, and was now in her wittiest and most gracious mood. Cassavetti remained with us, speaking seldom, though he could be a brilliant conversationalist when he liked. He listened to Anne’s every word, watched every gesture, unobtrusively, but with a curious intentness.

      Soon after ten, people began to leave, some who lived at a distance, others who would finish the evening elsewhere. Anne was going on to a birthday supper at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s house in Kensington, to which many theatrical friends had been bidden. The invitation was an impromptu one, given and accepted a few minutes ago, and now the famous actress came to claim her guest.

      “Ready, Anne? Sorry you can’t come with us, Mr. Wynn; but come later if you can.”

      We moved towards the door all together, Anne and her hostess with their hands full of red and white flowers. The “Savages” had raided the table decorations, and presented the spoils to their guests.

      Cassavetti intercepted Anne.

      “Good night, Miss Pendennis,” he said in a low voice, adding, in French, “Will you give me a flower as souvenir of our first meeting?”

      She glanced at her posy, selected a spray of scarlet geranium, and presented it to him with a smile, and a word that I did not catch.

      He looked at her more intently than ever as he took it.

      “A thousand thanks, mademoiselle. I understand well,” he said, with a queer thrill in his voice, as of suppressed excitement.

      As she passed on I heard him mutter in French: “The symbol! Then it is she! Yes, without doubt it is she!”

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

THE BLOOD-STAINED PORTRAIT

       Table of Contents

      In the vestibule I hung around waiting till Anne and Mrs. Dennis Sutherland should reappear from the cloak-room.

      It was close on the time when I was due at Whitehall Gardens, but I must have a parting word with Anne, even at the risk of being late for the appointment with my chief.

      Jim and Mary passed through, and paused to say good night.

      “It’s all right, Maurice?” Mary whispered. “And you’re coming to us to-morrow, anyhow?”

      “Yes; to say good-bye, if I have to start on Monday.”

      “Just about time you were on the war-path again, my boy,” said Jim, bluffly. “Idleness is demoralizing, ’specially in London.”

      Now this was scarcely fair, considering that it was little more than a month since I returned from South Africa, where I had been to observe and report on the conditions of labor in the mines; nor had I been by any means idle during those weeks of comparative leisure. But I knew, of course, that this was an oblique