Part 8 (1/2)

Raife threw the end of his cigar far in front of him, and, rising from the bench, crossed the promenade and leant against a railing. He s.h.i.+vered slightly, for a March night in Nice may be chilly, even treacherously so. Thus musing, he glanced at one of those daintily-ill.u.s.trated little pamphlets that advertise the resorts of the Riviera. A thought flashed through his mind. His father's last words, as he lay dying from the a.s.sa.s.sin's revolver, came to him. ”I was a fool, Edgson. I ought to have told my boy from the first. Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard. This is mine.” And the last haunting words of all came to him:

”Beware of the trap--she--that woman.”

Why had this beautiful young girl come into his life at such a tragic time? Could it be possible? No! Perish the thought. Nothing but good could come from that sweet countenance that had enthralled him from the first glance. But, then, who was this uncle, Doctor Malsano? The very name was evil-sounding, and, in spite of his distinguished air, that swivel eye, with much else of his striking countenance, was sinister.

Raife now felt certain that he had recognised a sneer on the man's face--a malicious sneer, when Gilda had snubbed him.

These long minutes in that full flood of southern moonlight were fraught with much that might be good--or bad--for Sir Raife Remington, Bart. In spite of his pa.s.sionate outburst in the long white room of the ”Blue Boar,” at Tunbridge Wells; in spite of his vehemently-declared intention to win that beautiful girl for his wife--or die--he was possessed of a premonition of danger ahead. Again his father's dying words rang in his ears, and the blood-stained chamber, the scene in his ancestral hall of his father's cruel murder, came vividly before him, and he was tempted to ”beware of the trap.”

In such mood he turned on his heel and sauntered yet a little farther from the Hotel Royal, where he was staying with his bereaved mother.

The southern lands are the lands of intrigue and mystery. They are the lands of deepest nights and brightest days, and that alternating intensity enters into the characters of the peoples who inhabit them.

As Raife was lighting a second cigar, he was vaguely conscious of a young boy or girl who dodged in the shadows behind him. The strongest man likes to meet his friends face to face, but a potential foe lurking in shadows on a moonlight night in a southern land, is disconcerting.

Watching an opportunity, therefore, Raife wheeled suddenly around, and making a dash for the youngster, secured him. The young girl, who appeared to be about thirteen years of age, did not seem alarmed, but smiled seductively, saying: ”Signor Raife! meet a preety signora. Meea take you there.”

At the same time, the girl handed Raife a piece of paper on which was written:

”Quite safe. Follow the girl.”

Again those words of warning from his dying father.

Was this the trap.

In his present mood he did not care, and welcomed an adventure even if it should be dangerous.

He followed the little girl.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

WHO WAS THE APACHE?

Raife Remington followed the mysterious little girl, she dodging her way through the patches of silver light and gloomy shade. He strode in a gloomy, almost defiant manner, which implied that there was trouble ahead, and he was determined to meet it. As they approached the Hotel Royal they pa.s.sed a group of men who appeared to regard Raife with more than the ordinary interest that an obviously English, or perhaps American, visitor should attract. Now in the full light of the moon, enhanced by the brilliant street-lamps and the lights of the town glistening here and there, they dived into a side street. The little girl beckoned to Raife and he approached her. Then pointing to a cafe she said: ”Signora meeta you there.”

The child disappeared and Raife sauntered in the direction indicated.

With an air of nonchalance he relit the cigar which had gone out. There seemed to be an air of mystery about the transaction. He waited for a minute or two but no one appeared, until he felt a sense of impatience mixed with irritation. The event of the afternoon still rankled within him, and he was simmering with a stifled rage and indignation. The suggestion of a ”trap” appeared evident, and he determined to enter the rather dimly-lit cafe 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 p.r.o.nounced it, ”mams'elle arrivera tout a 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 s.p.a.ce? 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?