Part 11 (1/2)
Her argument was plain and forcible. I had never regarded the matter in that light.
”Really, Aline,” I said, ”I'm beginning to think that you are possessed of some power that is supernatural.”
She laughed--a laugh that sounded strangely hollow.
”I tell you this--I argue with you for your own sake, to save you from the danger which now encompa.s.ses you. I would be your protector because you trust me so implicitly, only that is impossible.”
In an instant I recollected her declaration to her bony-faced companion in the Park. Had she actually resolved to kill me?
”Why should I relinquish you in favour of one for whom I have no affection?” I argued.
”Why should you kiss the hand that must smite you?” she asked.
Her lips were bloodless; her face of ashen pallor.
”You are not yourself to-day,” I said. ”It is not usual for a woman who is loved to speak as you speak. The love of a man is usually flattering to a woman.”
”I have come to save you, and have spoken plainly.”
”What, then, have I done that I deserve punishment?” I inquired in breathless eagerness.
”You love me.”
”Surely the simple offence of being your lover is not punishable by death?”
”Alas! it is,” she answered hoa.r.s.ely. ”Compelled as I am to preserve my secret, I cannot explain to you. Yet, if I could, the facts would prove so astounding that you would refuse to believe them. Only the graves of those who have loved me--some of them nameless--are sufficient proof of the fatality I bring upon those whom my beauty entrances.”
She raised her head, and her eyes encountered a photograph standing on a table in the window. It was Roddy's.
”See there!” she said, starting, raising her hand and pointing to it.
”Like yourself, that man loved me, and has paid the penalty. He died abroad.”
”No,” I replied quickly. ”You are mistaken. That picture is the portrait of a friend; and he's certainly not dead, for he was here smoking with me last night.”
”Not dead!” she cried, starting up and crossing to it. ”Why, he died at Monte Carlo. He committed suicide after losing all he had.”
”No,” I replied, rather amused. ”That is the Honourable Roderick Morgan, member of Parliament.”
”Yes, that was the name,” she said aloud to herself. ”Roddy Morgan they called him. He lost seven thousand pounds in one day at roulette.”
”He has never to my knowledge been to Monte Carlo,” I observed, standing beside her.
”You've not always accompanied him everywhere he has been, I presume?”
she said.
”No, but had he been to Monte Carlo he would certainly have told me.”
”Men do not care to speak of losses when they are as absurdly reckless as he was.”