"Do you really know this?" I asked, looking the Parson straight in the face.

"Know it? Why, everybody in this Hotel knows of their engagement. I've been here five weeks, and they were here before I arrived. They're staying the season, and have the best suite of rooms in the place. The old Countess is, no doubt, very wealthy, and lives in Munich."

Neither of the women had noticed me, and I remained silent.

What my friend had told me was certainly extraordinary. Why, I wondered had Madame represented herself as a woman of the middle-cla.s.s, resident in a dull West End terrace? Why had Elise not admitted to me the truth?

She had seemed so charmingly frank.

With an intention to remain unseen and observant I purposely avoided the pair that evening.

Next morning I saw Elise and young Hausner strolling together on the Strandweg, that broad path which forms the princ.i.p.al promenade, and runs along the rocky coast from Volosca to Icici. She was smartly dressed in cream serge, girdled narrow but distinctive, and wore a large black hat which suited her admirably, while he was in an easy suit of dark blue, a panama, and white shoes. They were talking very earnestly as they walked slowly on in the bright autumn sunshine with the blue Adriatic before them. He seemed to be telling her something very seriously, and she was listening without uttering a word--or, at least, she scarcely spoke while they were within my sight.

On returning to the hotel I stumbled upon Madame Demidoff, who, seated in the hall, was chatting with a tall, bald-headed, middle-aged man in dark brown tweed, who had every appearance of an Englishman. She had just given him a letter to read, and he was laughing heartily over it.

Fortunately, however, she sat with her back to the door and, therefore, did not observe me. So I was enabled to make my exit without detection.

Half an hour later I pointed out the Englishman to the Parson, asking who he was.

"I don't know," was his reply. "I've never seen him before; a fresh arrival, I suppose."

That day I lunched and dined in my private sitting-room, in order to avoid the pair, and continue my observations. That night I caught sight of Elise, whose exquisite gown of pale pink chiffon was creating a sensation among the well-dressed women, for the news of her engagement to the young millionaire banker made her the most-talked-of and admired girl in the great crowded hotel.

At eleven that night, when I believed that the ladies had gone to bed, I ventured downstairs to the _fumoir_. As I went along the corridor, I noticed Madame's English friend, with his overcoat over his evening clothes, leaving the hotel for a stroll, while almost at the same moment Madame herself emerged from one of the rooms, and, without doubt, recognised me, I saw her start quickly, hesitate for a second, and then turn away in pretence that she had not noticed me.

Her att.i.tude was distinctly curious, and therefore I made no attempt to claim acquaintance.

The mystery of the situation was, however, considerably increased when, next morning, I was surprised to learn that the Countess Gemsenberg had received bad news from Munich, that her husband had been injured in a lift accident, and that she and her daughter had left Mattuglie--the station for Abbazia, three miles distant--by the 8:48 train, young Hausner leaving by the same train.

From the servants I discovered that Madame and her daughter had spent half the night packing, and had not announced their departure until six that morning. No telegram had been received by either of the trio, which seemed to me a curiously interesting point.

Was it possible that Madame had fled upon recognising me? If so, for what reason?

The mystery surrounding the pair attracted me, and during the further fortnight I remained at the Stefanie, I made inquiries concerning them.

It appeared that a few days after their arrival the Countess herself had told two German ladies of her daughter's engagement to young Hausner, and that the latter would arrive in a few days. This news at once spread over the big hotel, and when the young man arrived he at once became the most popular person in Abbazia.

The Countess's enemies, however, declared that one night in the hotel-garden she and Hausner had a violent quarrel, but its nature was unknown, because they spoke in English. Mademoiselle was also present, and instead of supporting her lover, took her mother's side and openly abused him.

And yet next morning the pair were walking arm-in-arm beside the sea, as though no difference of opinion had occurred.

As for the Englishman in brown, I ascertained that he did not live there, but at the Quarnero, down by the sea. Those who heard him talk declared that the Countess addressed him as Mr Wilkinson, and that he was undoubtedly English.

Many facts I ascertained were distinctly strange. The more so when, on making inquiry through a man whom the Parson knew living at the Quarnero, I found that this Mr Wilkinson had left Abbazia at the same hour as his three friends.

I could see no reason why my presence at the Stefanie should create such sudden terror within the mind of the old lady with the yellow teeth.

The more I reflected upon the whole affair, the more mysterious were the phases it a.s.sumed.

I recollected that the old lady, whoever she might be, lived at Number 10 Toddington Terrace, Regent's Park, and I resolved to call and see her in pretence that I had not recognised her in Abbazia, and was unaware of her presence there.

Autumn gave place to winter, and I was still wandering about the Continent on matters more or less lucrative. To Venice Naples and down to Constantinople I went, returning at last in the dark days of late January to the rain and mud of London; different, indeed, to the sunshine and brightness of the beautiful Bosphorus.

One afternoon, while seated here in Dover Street, lazily looking forth upon the traffic, I suddenly made up my mind to call upon the old lady, and with that purpose took a taxi-cab.

As we pulled up before Number 10, I at once recognised the truth, for the green Venetian blinds were all down.

In answer to my ring, a narrow-faced, consumptive-looking woman, evidently the caretaker, opened the door.

"No, sir. Madame Demidoff and Elise left home again for the Continent a fortnight ago, and they won't be back till the beginning of April." She spoke of Elise familiarly without the prefix "Miss." That was curious.

"Do you know where they are?"

"I send their letters to the Excelsior Hotel, at Palermo."

"Thank you. By the way," I added, "do you happen to know who is the landlord of these houses?"

"Mr Epgrave, sir. He lives just there--that new-painted house at the corner;" and she pointed to the residence in question.

And with that information I re-entered the cab and drove back to the club.

So Madame was enjoying the war in Sicilian sunshine! Lucky old woman.

I had only been back in London a week, and was already longing for warmth and brightness again.

That night, seated alone, trying to form some plan for the immediate future, I found myself suggesting a flying visit to Palermo. The Villa Igiea was a favourite hotel of mine, and I could there enjoy the winter warmth, and at the same time keep an eye upon the modest old lady of Toddington Terrace, who appeared to blossom forth into a wealthy countess whenever occasion required.

The idea grew upon me. Indeed, a fortnight later, constant traveller that I am, I ran from Paris to Naples in the "sixty," with Garrett, and shipped the car over to Palermo, where I soon found myself idling in the big white and pale green lounge of the Igiea, wondering how best to get sight of Madame, who I had already ascertained, was at the Excelsior at the other end of the town, still pa.s.sing as Countess Gemsenberg. The pretty Elise was with her, and my informant--an Italian--told me in confidence that the young Marquis Torquato Torrini, head of the well-known firm of Genoese shipowners who was staying in the hotel, was head over heels in love with her, and that engagement was imminent.

I heard this in silence. What, I wondered had become of the young Austrian millionaire, Hausner?

I, however, kept my own counsel, waited and watched. The Parson also turned up a couple of days later and started gossip and tea-drinking in the hotel. But, of course, we posed as strangers to each other.

The Igiea being the best hotel in Palermo and situated on the sea, the blue Mediterranean lapping the grey rocks at the end of the beautiful garden, it is the mode for people at other hotels to go there to tea, just as they go to the "Reserve," at Beaulieu, or the Star and Garter at Richmond.

I therefore waited from day to day, expecting her to come there. Each day I pottered about in the car, but in vain.

One morning, however, while pa.s.sing in front of the cathedral, I saw her walking alone, and quickly seized the opportunity and overtook her.

"Ah! Mademoiselle!" I exclaimed in French as I raised my cap in feigned surprise and descended from the car. "Fancy, you! In Palermo!

And Madame, your aunt?"

"She is quite well, thank you, Prince," she replied; and then, at my invitation, she got into the car and we ran round the town. I saw that she was very uneasy. The meeting was not altogether a pleasant surprise for her; that was very evident.

"This place is more civilised than Tirnovo," I laughed. "Since then I expect that you, like myself, have been travelling a good deal."

"Yes. We've been about quite a lot--to Vienna, Abbazia, Rome, and now to Palermo."

"And not yet to London?"

"Oh! yes. We were at home exactly eleven days. The weather was, however, so atrocious that Madame--my aunt, I mean--decided to come here. We are at the Excelsior. You are, of course, at the Igiea?"

And so we ran along through the big, rather ugly, town, laughing and chatting affably. Dressed in a neat gown of dove-grey cloth, with hat to match and long white gloves, she looked extremely _chic_, full of that daintiness which was so essentially that of the true Parisienne.