An Unpardonable Liar | Page 2

the long lashes. Her lips were parted in
the smile which had made both men and women call her merry,
amiable and fascinating.
"You don't know what it is, of course," she said, looking round, as
though the occurrence had been ordinary. "It is a chant hummed by the
negro woodcutters of Louisiana as they tramp homeward in the evening.
It is pretty, isn't it?"
"It's a rum thing," said one they called the Prince, though Alpheus
Richmond was the name by which his godmother knew him. "But
who's the gentleman behind the scenes--in the greenroom?"
As he said this he looked--or tried to look--knowingly at Mrs. Detlor,
for, the Prince desired greatly to appear familiar with people and things

theatrical, and Mrs. Detlor knew many in the actor and artist world.
Mrs. Detlor smiled in his direction, but the smile was not reassuring.
He was, however, delighted. He almost asked her then and there to ride
with him on the morrow, but he remembered that he could drive much
better than he could ride, and, in the pause necessary to think the matter
out, the chance passed--he could not concentrate himself easily.
"Yes. Who is it?" said the young girl.
"Lord, I'll find out," said the flaring Alpheus, a jeweled hand at his tie
as he rose.
But their host had made up his mind. He did not know whether Mrs.
Detlor did or did not recognize the voice, but he felt that she did not
wish the matter to go farther. The thing was irregular if he was a
stranger, and if he were not a stranger it lay with Mrs. Detlor whether
he should be discovered.
There was a curious stillness in Mrs. Detlor's manner, as though she
were waiting further development of the incident. Her mind was in a
whirl of memories. There was a strange thumping sensation in her head.
Yet who was to know that from her manner?
She could not help flashing a look of thanks to Hagar when he stepped
quickly between the Prince and the window and said in what she called
his light comedy manner:
"No, no, Richmond. Let us keep up the illusion. The gentleman has
done us a service; otherwise we had lost the best half of Mrs. Detlor's
song. We'll not put him at disadvantage."
"Oh, but look here, Hagar," said the other protestingly as he laid his
hand upon the curtains.
Few men could resist the quiet decision of Hagar's manner, though he
often laughed that, having but a poor opinion of his will as he knew it,
and believing that he acted firmness without possessing it, save where
he was purely selfish. He put his hands in his pockets carelessly, and
said in a low, decisive tone, "Don't do it, if you please."
But he smiled, too, so that others, now gossiping, were unaware that the
words were not of as light comedy as the manner. Hagar immediately
began a general conversation and asked Baron to sing "The Banks o'
Ben Lomond," feeling sure that Mrs. Detlor did not wish to sing again.
Again she sent him a quick look of thanks and waved her fingers in
protest to those who were urging her. She clapped her hands as she saw

Baron rise, and the others, for politeness sake, could not urge her more.
* * * * *
For the stranger. Only the morning of that day he had arrived at the
pretty town of Herridon among the hills and moors, set apart for the
idle and ailing of this world. Of the world literally, for there might be
seen at the pump-room visitors from every point of the
compass--Hindoo gentlemen brought by sons who ate their legal
dinners near Temple Bar; invalided officers from Hongkong, Bombay,
Aden, the Gold Coast and otherwhere; Australian squatters and their
daughters; attaches of foreign embassies; a prince from the Straits
Settlements; priests without number from the northern counties; Scotch
manufacturers; ladies wearied from the London season; artists, actors
and authors, expected to do at inopportune times embarrassing things,
and very many from Columbia, happy land, who go to Herridon as to
Westminster--to see the ruins.
It is difficult for Herridon to take its visitors seriously, and quite as
difficult for the visitors to take Herridon seriously. That is what the
stranger thought as he tramped back and forth from point to point
through the town. He had only been there twelve hours, yet he was
familiar with the place. He had the instincts and the methods of the true
traveler. He never was guilty of sightseeing in the usual sense. But it
was his habit to get general outlines fixed at once. In Paris, in London,
he had taken a map, had gone to some central spot, and had