High Noon | Page 4

as he moved among the tables, none regarded him more
closely than a lady who sat alone in a small recess, screened from
prying eyes by a bank of greenery.
A marvellous lady she was, with hair as black as the sweep of a raven's
wing, crowning a face as finely chiselled as any Florentine cameo. And
if the diamonds about her smooth white throat had wondrous sheen
they were not more lustrous nor more full of sparkling fire than her
opalescent eyes.
Unseen by the preoccupied Paul, she leaned across the cloth, scarcely
whiter than her pale face, and gazed at him with wonder--was it more
than that? With a slight movement of her tapering hand she dismissed
the liveried servant stationed behind her, and stayed on, with food and
wine untouched. And Paul knew it not.
So near to us can lie the hidden path of our strange destinies until the
appointed hour.

CHAPTER III
The next morning Paul breakfasted on the terrace. The gay greetings of
old friends, the pleasant babble in the breakfast room ill suited his
reflective mood.
And as he sat alone under the fragrant pergola enjoying his cigarette
and dividing his attention between his coffee and the Paris Edition of
the Herald, a pale, dark-haired lady passed by as she sought the terrace
for an early stroll. Paul's eyes were on his paper at that moment--and if
the lady's well-bred glance lingered on him for a brief instant as he
turned the pages of the daily, he was all unconscious of her presence.
Perhaps the lady may have seen something about the strong,
wholesome, well-groomed Englishman that pleased her, perhaps she
was simply glad to be alive upon that glorious morning, with the
bracing breeze blowing fresh from the lake, and the sun sending his
welcome rays down upon the mountainside. At all events, her lips
parted in the merest shadow of a smile as she walked along the
gravelled path with the veriest air of a princess.
Alas! the smile and the dainty picture which the dark-haired lady made
as she moved down the flower bordered path in the sunshine, her
morning gown clinging gracefully about her slender figure, were alike
lost on the engrossed Paul. With his eyes glued to the criticism of a
sharpened writer on the last measure before Parliament, he read on, all
oblivious to his surroundings. Even here, at his beloved Lucerne, the
man of affairs could not escape the thrall of the life into which he had
thrown the whole effort of his fine mind.
Sir Paul had not quite finished the breezy article when, with an all
pervading blast of a sweet-toned, but unnecessarily loud Gabriel horn, a
big green touring car came dashing up to the gate of the little hotel, and
with a final roar and sputter, and agonized shriek of rudely applied
brakes, came to a sudden stop. From it there emerged, like a monster
crab crawling from a mossy shell, a huge form in a bright green coat--a
heavy man with a fat, colourless face and puffy eyes, and Paul,

glancing up at the ostentatious approach, recognized in him a nouveau
riche whom a political friend had insisted on introducing in London a
few days before.
Schwartzberger, his name was (Paul had a peculiar trick of
remembering names)--the fellow was said to have made a fortune in old
rags--no, it was tinned meats--in Chicago. It was his proud boast that he
started in the business as a butcher's errand boy but a few years ago,
and now, no supper bill at the Moulin Rouge, no evening's play at
Monte Carlo, had ever made a material depletion in the supply of gold
that always jingled in the pockets of his loud clothes. His was the
fastest car and the gayest coloured on all the Continent, and he was
alike the hero and the easy dupe of every servant.
As the stout American came waddling uncertainly up the walk, with a
certain elephantine effort at jauntiness, he nearly collided with the
foreign lady who had crossed his path to reach the further limits of the
terrace. Not having a cautioning horn attached to his anatomy to warn
heedless trespassers from his way, the large person was forced to give
ground, but had some difficulty in veering from his course sufficiently
to avoid an accident. However, the grande dame slipped past him
quickly and disappeared amid the shrubbery--but not before her
extraordinary beauty had dazzled the pork-packer's beady eyes.
He turned and stared at her.
"Gee! What a peach!" he murmured aloud, in words which came
wheezing from between thick lips. "I wonder if that's the Countess's
lady friend she spoke of."
Then, catching sight of Verdayne, and knowing him at once for the
swell English