"I don't see any occasion to refer to love in any way," she said, icily. "Mamma certainly does not expect me to do such an extraordinary thing. If you will talk sensibly, Phil, we may enjoy the drive, but if you persist in talking of affairs so ridiculous--"

"I can't say that I expect you to fall in love with me, so for once your mother and I agree. Nevertheless, she didn't want you to come with me," he said, absolutely undisturbed.

"How do you know she didn't?" she demanded, womanlike. Then, before she was quite aware of it, they were in a deep and earnest discussion of Mrs. Garrison, and her not very complimentary views.

"And how do you feel about this confounded prospect, Dorothy? You are not afraid of what a few gossips--n.o.ble or otherwise--may say about a friendship that is entirely the business of two people and not the property of the general public? If you feel that I am in the way I'll gladly go, you know. Of course, I'd rather hate to miss seeing you once in a while, but I think I'd have the courage to--"

"Oh, it's not nice of you to be sarcastic," she cried, wondering, however, whether he really meant "gladly" when he said it. Somehow she felt herself admitting that she was piqued by his apparent readiness to abdicate. She did not know that he was c.o.c.ksure of his ground before making the foregoing and other observations equally as indifferent.

"I'm not sarcastic; quite the reverse. I'm very serious. You know how much I used to think of you--"

"But that was long ago, and you were such a foolish boy," she cried, interrupting nervously.

"Yes, I know; a boy must have his foolish streaks. How a fellow changes as he gets older, and how he looks back and laughs at the fancies he had when a boy. Same way with a girl, though, I suppose."

He said it so calmly, so naturally that she took a sly peep at his face. It revealed nothing but blissful imperturbability.

"I'm glad you agree with me. You see, I've always thought you were horribly broken up when I--when I found that I also was indulging in a foolish streak. I believe I came to my senses before you did, though, and saw how ridiculous it all was. Children do such queer things, don't they?" It was his turn to take a sly peep, and his spirits went down a bit under the pressure of her undisguised frankness.

"How lucky it was we found it out before we ran away with each other, as we once had the nerve to contemplate. Gad, Dorothy, did you ever stop to think what a mistake it would have been?" She was bowing to some people in a brougham, and the question was never answered. After a while he went on, going back to the original subject. "I shall see Mrs. Garrison to-night and talk it over with her. Explain to her, you know, and convince her that I don't in the least care what the gossips say about me. I believe I can live it all down, if they do say I am madly, hopelessly in love with the very charming fiancee of an Italian prince."

"You have me to reckon with, Phil; I am the one to consider and the one to pa.s.s judgment. You may be able to appease mamma, but it is I who will determine whether it is to be or not to be. Let us drop the subject. For the present, we are having a charming drive. Is it not beautiful?"

To his amazement and to hers, when they returned late in the afternoon Mrs. Garrison asked him to come back and dine.

"I must be dreaming," he said to himself, as he drove away. "She's as shrewd as the deuce, and there's a motive in her sudden friendliness. I'm beginning to wonder how far I'll drop and how hard I'll hit when this affair explodes. Well, it's worth a mighty strenuous effort. If I win, I'm the luckiest fool on earth; if I lose, the surprise won't kill me." At eight he presented himself again at the Garrison house and found that he was not the only guest. He was introduced to a number of people, three of whom were Americans, the others French. These were Hon. and Mrs. Horace Knowlton and their daughter, Miss Knowlton, M. and Mme. de Cartier, Mile. Louise Gaudelet and Count Raoul de Vincent.

"Dorothy tells me you are to be in Brussels for several weeks, and I was sure you would be glad to know some of the people here. They can keep you from being lonesome, and they will not permit you to feel that you are a stranger in a strange land," said Mrs. Garrison.

Quentin bowed deeply to her, flashed a glance of understanding at Dorothy, and then surveyed the strangers he was to meet. Quick intelligence revealed her motive in inviting him to meet these people, and out of sheer respect for her shrewdness he felt like applauding. She was cleverly providing him with acquaintances that any man might wish to possess, and she was doing it so early that the diplomacy of her action was as plain as day to at least two people.

"Mamma is clever, isn't she?" Dorothy said to him, merrily, as they entered the dining-room. Neither was surprised to find that he had been chosen to take her out. It was in the game.

"She is very kind. I can't say how glad I am to meet these people.

My stay here can't possibly be dull," he said. "Mile. Gaudelet is stunning, isn't she?"

"Do you really think so?" she asked, and she did not see his smile.

The dinner was a rare one, the company brilliant, but there was to occur, before the laughter in the wine had spent itself, an incident in which Philip Quentin figured so conspicuously that his wit as a dinner guest ceased to be the topic of subdued side talk, and he took on a new personality.

XI. FROM THE POTS AND PLANTS

The broad veranda, which faced the avenue and terminated at the corner of the house in a huge circle, not unlike an open conservatory, afforded a secluded and comparatively cool retreat for the diners later in the evening. Banked along the rails were the rarest of tropical plants; shaded incandescent lamps sent their glow from somewhere among the palms, and there was a suggestion of fairy-land in the scene. If Quentin had a purpose in being particularly a.s.siduous in his attentions to Mlle. Gaudelet, he did not suspect that he was making an implacable foe of Henri de Cartier, the husband of another very charming young woman.

Unaccustomed to the intrigues of Paris, and certainly not aware that Brussels copied the fashions of her bigger sister across the border in more ways than one, he could not be expected to know that de Cartier loved not his wife and did love the pretty Louise. Nor could his pride have been convinced that the young woman at his side was enjoying the tete-a-tete chiefly because de Cartier was fiercely cursing the misfortune which had thrown this new element into conflict. It may be unnecessary to say that Mrs. Garrison was delighted with the unmistakable signs of admiration manifested by the two young people.

It was late when Quentin reluctantly arose to make his adieux. He had finished acknowledging the somewhat effusive invitations to the houses of his new acquaintances, and was standing near Dorothy, directly in front of a tall bank of palms. From one point of view this collection of plants looked like a dense jungle, so thickly were they placed on the porch at its darkest end. The light from a drawing-room window shone across the front of the green ma.s.s, but did not penetrate the recess near the porch rail. He was taking advantage of a very brief opportunity, while others were moving away, to tell her that Mile. Louise was fascinating, when her hand suddenly clasped his arm and she whispered:

"Phil, there is a man behind those palms." His figure straightened, but he did not look around.

"Nonsense, Dorothy. How could a man get--" he began, in a very low tone.

"I saw the leaves move, and just now I saw a foot near the rail. Be careful, for heaven's sake, but look for yourself; he is near the window."

Like statues they stood, she rigid under the strain, but brave enough and cool enough to maintain a remarkable composure. She felt the muscle of his forearm contract, and there swept over her a strange dread. His eyes sought the spot indicated in a perfectly natural manner, and there was no evidence of perturbation in his gaze or posture. The foot of a man was dimly discernible in the shadow, protruding from behind a great earthen jar. Without a word he led her across the porch to where the others stood.

"Good-night, Mrs. Garrison," he said, calmly, taking the hand she proffered. Dorothy, now trembling like a leaf, looked on in mute surprise. Did he mean to depart calmly, with the knowledge that they needed his protection? "Good-night, Miss Garrison. I trust I shall see you soon." Then, in a lower tone: "Get the people around the corner here, and not a word to them."

The ladies were quite well past the corner before he ventured to tell the men, whom he held back on some trifling pretext, that there was a man among the plants. The information might have caused a small panic had not his coolness dominated the nerves of the others.

"Call the gendarmes," whispered de Cartier, panic stricken. "Call the servants."

"We don't want the officers nor the servants," said Philip, coolly.

"Let the ladies get inside the house and we'll soon have a look at our fellow guest."

"But he may be armed," said the count, nervously.

"Doubtless he is. Burglars usually are. I had an experience with an armed burglar once on a time, and I still live. Perhaps a few palms will be damaged, but we'll be as considerate as possible. There is no time to lose, gentlemen. He may be trying to escape even now."

Without another word he turned and walked straight toward the palms.

Not another man followed, and he faced the unwelcome guest alone.

Faced is the right word, for the owner of the telltale foot had taken advantage of their momentary absence from that end of the porch to make a hurried and reckless attempt to leave his cramped and dangerous hiding-place. He was crowding through the outer circle of huge leaves when Quentin swung into view. The light from the window was full in the face of the stranger, white, scared, dogged.

"Here he is!" cried Quentin, leaping forward. "Come on, gentlemen!"

With a frantic plunge the trapped stranger crashed through the plants, crying hoa.r.s.ely in French as he met Quentin in the open:

"I don't want to kill you! Keep off!"

Quentin's arm shot out and the fellow went tumbling back among the pots and plants. He was up in an instant. As the American leaped upon him for the second blow, he drove his hand sharply, despairingly, toward that big breast. There came the ripping of cloth, the tearing of flesh, and something hot gushed over Phil's shoulder and arm. His own blow landed, but not squarely, and, as he stumbled forward, his lithe, vicious antagonist sprang aside, making another wild but ineffectual sweep with the knife he held in his right hand. Before Quentin could recover, the fellow was dashing straight toward the petrified, speechless men at the end of the porch, where they had been joined by some of the women.

"Out of the way! Out of the way!" he shrieked, brandishing his knife. Through the huddled bunch he threw himself, unceremoniously toppling over one of them. The way was clear, and he was down the steps like a whirlwind. It was all over in an instant's time, but before the witnesses to the encounter could catch the second breath, the tall form of Philip Quentin was flying down the steps in close pursuit. Out into the Avenue Louise they raced, the fugitive with a clear lead.

"Come back, Phil!" cried a woman's voice, and he knew the tone because of the thrill it sent to his heart.

He heard others running behind him, and concluded that his fellow guests had regained their wits and were in the chase with him. If the pursued heard the sudden, convulsive laugh of the man behind him he must have wondered greatly. Phil could not restrain the wild desire to laugh when he pictured the sudden and precipitous halt his valiant followers would be compelled to make if the fugitive should decide to stop and show fight. One or more of them would doubtless be injured in the impossible effort to run backward while still going forward.

Blood was streaming down his arm and he was beginning to feel an excruciating pain. Pedestrians were few, and they made no effort to obstruct the flight of the fugitive. Instead, they gave him a wide berth. From far in the rear came hoa.r.s.e cries, but Quentin was uttering no shout. He was grinding his teeth because the fellow had worsted him in the rather vainglorious encounter on the porch, and was doing all in his power to catch him and make things even. To his dismay the fellow was gaining on him and he was losing his own strength. Cursing the frightened men who allowed the thief to pa.s.s on unmolested and then joined in the chase, he raced panting onward.

The flying fugitive suddenly darted into a narrow, dark street, fifty feet ahead of his pursuer, and the latter felt that he had lost him completely. There was no sign of him when Quentin turned into the cross street; he had disappeared as if absorbed by the earth.

For a few minutes Philip and the mob--quite large, inquisitive and eager by this time--searched for a trace of the man, but without avail. The count, de Cartier and the Honorable Mr. Knowlton, with several of Mrs. Garrison's servants, came puffing up and, to his amazement and rage, criticised him for allowing the man to escape.

They argued that a concerted attack on the recess amongst the palms would have overwhelmed the fellow and he would now be in the hands of the authorities instead of as free as air. Quentin endured the expostulations of his companions and the fast-enlarging mirth of the crowd for a few moments in dumb surprise. Then he turned suddenly to retrace his steps up the avenue, savagely saying:

"If I had waited till you screwed up nerve enough to make a combined attack, the man would not have been obliged to take this long and tiresome run. He might have called a cab and ridden away in peace and contentment."

A laugh of derision came from the crowd and the two Frenchmen looked insulted. Mr. Knowlton flushed with shame and hurried after his tall countryman.