A Maker of History | Page 9

national dance. If she had chanced to raise
her veil no earthly persuasions on her part would have secured for her
the freedom of that little room, for Monsieur Albert's appreciation of
likeness was equal to his memory for faces. But it was not until she was
comfortably ensconced at a corner table, from which she had a good
view of the room, that she did so, and Monsieur Albert realized with a
philosophic shrug of the shoulders the error he had committed.
Phyllis looked about her with some curiosity. It was too early for the
habitués of the place, and most of the tables were empty. The
scarlet-coated band were smoking cigarettes, and had not yet produced
their instruments. The conductor curled his black moustache and stared
hard at the beautiful young English lady, without, however, being able
to attract a single glance in return. One or two men also tried to convey
to her by smiles and glances the fact that her solitude need continue no
longer than she chose. The unattached ladies put their heads together
and discussed her with little peals of laughter. To all of these things she
remained indifferent. She ordered a supper which she ate mechanically,
and wine which she scarcely drank. All the while she was considering.
Now that she was here what could she do? Of whom was she to make
inquiries? She scanned the faces of the newcomers with a certain grave
curiosity which puzzled them. She neither invited nor repelled notice.
She remained entirely at her ease.
Monsieur Albert, during one of his peregrinations round the room,

passed close to her table. She stopped him.
"I trust that Mademoiselle is well served!" he remarked with a little
bow.
"Excellently, I thank you," she answered.
He would have passed on, but she detained him.
"You have very many visitors here," she remarked. "Is it the same
always?"
He smiled.
"To-night," he declared, "it is nothing. There are many who come here
every evening. They amuse themselves here."
"You have a good many strangers also?" she asked.
"But certainly," he declared. "All the time!"
"I have a brother," she said, "who was here eleven nights ago--let me
see--that would be last Tuesday week. He is tall and fair, about
twenty-one, and they say like me. I wonder if you remember him."
Monsieur Albert shook his head slowly.
"That is strange," he declared, "for as a rule I forget no one. Last
Tuesday week I remember perfectly well. It was a quiet evening. La
Scala was here--but of the rest no one. If Mademoiselle's brother was
here it is most strange."
Her lip quivered for a moment. She was disappointed.
"I am so sorry," she said. "I hoped that you might have been able to
help me. He left the Grand Hotel on that night with the intention of
coming here--and he never returned. I have been very much worried
ever since."

She was no great judge of character, but Monsieur Albert's sympathy
did not impress her with its sincerity.
"If Mademoiselle desires," he said, "I will make inquiries amongst the
waiters. I very much fear, however, that she will obtain no news here."
He departed, and Phyllis watched him talking to some of the waiters
and the leader of the orchestra.
Presently he returned.
"I am very sorry," he announced, "but the brother of Mademoiselle
could not have come here. I have inquired of the garçons, and of
Monsieur Jules there, who forgets no one. They answer all the same."
"Thank you very much," she answered. "It must have been somewhere
else!"
She was unreasonably disappointed. It had been a very slender chance,
but at least it was something tangible. She had scarcely expected to
have it snapped so soon and so thoroughly. She dropped her veil to hide
the tears which she felt were not far from her eyes, and summoned the
waiter for her bill. There seemed to be no object in staying longer.
Suddenly the unexpected happened.
A hand, flashing with jewels, was rested for a moment upon her table.
When it was withdrawn a scrap of paper remained there.
Phyllis looked up in amazement. The girl to whom the hand had
belonged was sitting at the next table, but her head was turned away,
and she seemed to be only concerned in watching the door. She drew
the scrap of paper towards her and cautiously opened it. This is what
she read, written in English, but with a foreign turn to most of the
letters:--
"Monsieur Albert lied. Your brother was here. Wait till I speak to you."
Instinctively she crumpled up this strange little note in her hand. She

struggled hard to maintain her composure. She had at once the idea that
every one in the place was looking