Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

“Oh! That’s quite enough, mother. You’ve told me that lots of times before. But I tell you quite frankly his love leaves me quite cold.”

“Ah! dear. That reply is, after all, but natural. You, of course, won’t confess the truth,” her mother laughed.

“I do, mother. I’m heartily glad the fellow has gone. I hate his supercilious manner, his superior tone, and his unctuous bearing. He’s simply odious! That’s my opinion.”

Her mother looked at her severely across the table.

“Please remember, Dorise, that George is my friend.”

“I never forget that,” said the girl meaningly, as she rose and left the table.

Half an hour later, when she entered her bedroom, she found Duncan, her maid, awaiting her.

“Oh! I’ve been waiting to see you this half hour, miss,” she said. “I couldn’t get you alone. Just before eight o’clock, as I was about to enter the park by the side gate near Bervie Farm, a gentleman approached me and asked if my name was Duncan. I told him it was, and then he gave me this to give to you in secret. He also gave me a pound note, miss, to say nothing about it.” And the prim lady’s maid handed her young mistress a small white envelope upon which her name was written.

Opening it, she found a plain visiting card which bore the words in a man’s handwriting:

“Would it be possible for you to meet me to-night at ten at the spot where I have given this to your maid? Urgent.—SILVERADO.”

Dorise held her breath. It was a message from the mysterious white cavalier who had sought her out at the bal blanc at Nice, and told her of Hugh’s peril!

Duncan was naturally curious owing to the effect the card had had upon her mistress, but she was too well trained to make any comment. Instead, she busied herself at the wardrobe, and a few moments afterwards left the room.

Dorise stood before the long cheval glass, the card still in her hand.

What did it mean? Why was the mysterious white cavalier in Scotland? At least she would now be able to see his face. It was past nine, and the moon was already shining. She had still more than half an hour before she went forth to meet the man of mystery.

She descended to the drawing-room, where her mother was reading, and after playing over a couple of songs as a camouflage, she pretended to be tired and announced her intention of retiring.

“We have to go into Edinburgh to-morrow morning,” her mother remarked. “So we should start pretty early. I’ve ordered the car for nine o’clock.”

“All right, mother. Good-night,” said the girl as she closed the door.

Then hastening to her room she threw off her dinner gown, and putting on a coat and skirt and the boots which she had worn when fishing that morning, she went out by a door which led from the great old library, with its thousands of brown-backed volumes, on to the broad terrace which overlooked the glen, now a veritable fairyland beneath the light of the moon.

Outside the silence was only broken by the ripple of the burn over its pebbles deep below, and the cry of the night-bird upon the steep rock whereon the historic old castle was built. By a path known to her she descended swiftly, and away into the park by yet another path, used almost exclusively by the servants and the postman, down to a gate which led out into the high road to Perth by one of the farms on the estate, the one known as the Bervie.

As she was about to pass through the small swing gate, she heard a voice which she recognized exclaim:

“Miss Ranscomb! I have to apologize!” And from the dark shadow a rather tall man emerged and barred her path.

“I daresay you will think this all very mysterious,” he went on, laughing lightly. “But I do hope I have not inconvenienced you. If so, pray accept my deepest apologies. Will you?”

“Not at all,” the girl replied, though somewhat taken aback by the suddenness of the encounter. The man spoke slowly and with evident refinement. His voice was the same she had heard at Nice on that memorable night of gaiety. She recognized it instantly.

As he stood before her, his countenance became revealed in the moonlight, and she saw a well-moulded, strongly-marked face, with a pair of dark, penetrating eyes, set a little too close perhaps, but denoting strong will and keen intelligence.

“Yes,” he laughed. “Look at me well, Miss Ranscomb. I am the white cavalier whom you last saw disguised by a black velvet mask. Look at me again, because perhaps you may wish to recognize me later on.”

“And you are still Mr. X—eh?” asked the girl, who had halted, and was gazing upon his rather striking face.

“Still the same,” he said, smiling. “Or you may call me Brown, Jones, or Robinson—or any of the other saints’ names if you prefer.”

“You have been very kind to me. Surely I may know your real name?”

“No, Miss Ranscomb. For certain very important reasons I do not wish to disclose it. Pardon me—will you not? I ask that favour of you.”

“But will you not satisfy my curiosity?”

“At my personal risk? No. I do not think you would wish me to do that—eh?” he asked in a tone of mild reproof.

Then he went on:

“I’m awfully sorry I could not approach you openly. In London I found out that you were up here, so I thought it best to see you in secret. You know why I have come to you, Miss Ranscomb—eh?”

“On behalf of Mr. Henfrey.”

“Yes. He is still in hiding. It has been impossible—through force of circumstances—for him to send you further messages.”

“Where is he? I want to see him.”

“Have patience, Miss Ranscomb, and I will arrange a meeting between you.”

“But why do the police still search for him?”

“Because of an unfortunate fact. The lady, Mademoiselle Ferad, is now confined to a private asylum at Cannes, but all the time she raves furiously about Monsieur Henfrey. Hence the French police are convinced that he shot her—and they are determined upon his arrest.”

“But do you think he is guilty?”

“I know he is not. Yet by force of adverse circumstances, he is compelled to conceal himself until such time that we can prove his innocence.”

“Ah! But shall we ever be in a position to prove that?”

“I hope so. We must have patience—and still more patience,” urged the mysterious man as he stood in the full light of the brilliant moon. “I have here a letter for you which Mr. Henfrey wrote a week ago. It only came into my hands yesterday.” And he gave her an envelope.

“Tell me something about this woman, Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo. Who is she?” asked Dorise excitedly.

“Well—she is a person who was notorious at the Rooms, as you yourself know. You have seen her.”

“And tell me, why do you take such an interest in Hugh?” inquired the girl, not without a note of suspicion in her voice.

“For reasons best known to myself, Miss Ranscomb. Reasons which are personal.”

“That’s hardly a satisfactory reply.”

“I fear I can give few satisfactory replies until we succeed in ascertaining the truth of what occurred at the Villa Amette,” he said. “I must urge you, Miss Ranscomb, to remain patient, and—and not to lose faith in the man who is wrongfully accused.”

“But when can I see him?” asked Dorise eagerly.