Part 59 (1/2)

”I do not think so,” he quietly said.

”'Ow you know dat?”

She, too, spoke quietly, but under a fearful strain. She had thrown herself forward, but, as she spoke, forced herself back into her seat.

”He told me so himself.”

The tall figure of Palmyre rose slowly and silently from her chair, her eyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. She seemed to have lost all knowledge of place or of human presence. She walked down the drawing-room quite to its curtained windows and there stopped, her face turned away and her hand laid with a visible tension on the back of a chair. She remained so long that Frowenfeld had begun to think of leaving her so, when she turned and came back. Her form was erect, her step firm and nerved, her lips set together and her hands dropped easily at her side; but when she came close up before the apothecary she was trembling. For a moment she seemed speechless, and then, while her eyes gleamed with pa.s.sion, she said, in a cold, clear tone, and in her native patois:

”Very well: if I cannot love I can have my revenge.” She took the letter from him and bowed her thanks, still adding, in the same tongue, ”There is now no longer anything to prevent.”

The apothecary understood the dark speech. She meant that, with no hope of Honore's love, there was no restraining motive to withhold her from wreaking what vengeance she could upon Agricola. But he saw the folly of a debate.

”That is all I can do?” asked he.

”_Oui, merci, Miche_” she said; then she added, in perfect English, ”but that is not all _I_ can do,” and then--laughed.

The apothecary had already turned to go, and the laugh was a low one; but it chilled his blood. He was glad to get back to his employments.

CHAPTER LI

BUSINESS CHANGES

We have now recorded some of the events which characterized the five months during which Doctor Keene had been vainly seeking to recover his health in the West Indies.

”Is Mr. Frowenfeld in?” he asked, walking very slowly, and with a cane, into the new drug-store on the morning of his return to the city.

”If Professo' Frowenfel' 's in?” replied a young man in s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, speaking rapidly, slapping a paper package which he had just tied, and sliding it smartly down the counter. ”No, seh.”

A quick step behind the doctor caused him to turn; Raoul was just entering, with a bright look of business on his face, taking his coat off as he came.

”Docta Keene! _Teck_ a chair. 'Ow you like de noo sto'? See? Fo'

counters! T'ree clerk'! De whole interieure paint undre mie h-own direction! If dat is not a beautiful! eh? Look at dat sign.”

He pointed to some lettering in harmonious colors near the ceiling at the farther end of the house. The doctor looked and read:

MANDARIN, AG'T, APOTHECARY.

”Why not Frowenfeld?” he asked.

Raoul shrugged.

”'Tis better dis way.”

That was his explanation.

”Not the De Brahmin Mandarin who was Honore's manager?”