High Noon | Page 8

the path below formed a partial shelter for
the bench. He turned instinctively, gazing at the landing, but saw
nothing.
He had just decided that his nerves were playing him a trick, when the
sound was repeated. This time he felt sure that some one, some thing,
was stirring close back of him. Again he turned and scanned the flight
of steps, gray in the bright starlight, until suddenly his eyes stood still.
They rested as if stopped by some mysterious compelling power--some

living magnet that seemed to hold them against his will. And then in
the luminous light the delicate outlines of a face seemed to establish
themselves, like a shadowy canvas painted by some fairy brush.
It was a face Paul knew right well, for it had scarcely left him, waking
or sleeping, for many, many years. Framed in the dark foliage, it leaned
toward him over the parapet, half visible, half obscured.
In a twinkling the weight of a score of years slipped like a cloak from
Paul's shoulders. With a wild, choking cry he leaped to his feet, and
stretching both his arms above him, "My Queen! my Queen!" he called.
But as he moved the vision vanished. And Paul knew that it was only a
cruel jest of Fate, and himself to be as ever but the plaything of his evil
genius, which never ceased to torture him. Relentlessly the load of
years crept back upon him and like an Old Man of the Sea wound
themselves about his shoulders and clutched him in a viselike grip, and
he sank with a convulsive gasp upon the bench again.
Soon the spasm passed. But for Paul the night was no longer beautiful.
Only unutterable sadness seemed to pervade the place. The very air
seemed heavy with oppressive grief. And rising, he tottered like an old
man around to the foot of the steps and dragged himself slowly up.
He had reached the landing immediately above the bench he had just
quitted when he saw a blur of white--an indistinct patch in the half-light.
He reached forward, and his trembling fingers closed upon a lady's
handkerchief. And then--he caught the faintest breath of a perfume,
strange yet hauntingly familiar, as if the doors of the dead past had
opened for an instant.
Heavens! Her perfume! His brain reeled. He rushed up to his
sitting-room, and there, under the bright light, he examined the trophy.
It was real--there was no doubt about that. Paul had half fancied that
after all it was only another trick of his imagination. But there lay the
scrap of filmy stuff upon his table, as tangible as the solid oak on which
it rested.

He folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. For some moments he
pondered over the strange coincidence, and as he thought, the clouds
lifted from his brain again. If this were chance, surely there was some
consistency in it all. Fortune always sets mile-posts on the road to her,
and with a thrill Paul realized that he was still a young man and that
this tiny suggestion from the destiny which directs poor mortals' affairs
was not to be disregarded. The time for action had come.
He descended briskly to the hall and scanned the visitors' list. The
names--most of them--meant nothing. Except for Barclay and his party
Paul knew no one in the place. Indeed, he had held himself aloof from
chance acquaintances.
By this time no guests remained about the lounge. In the doorway stood
Monsieur Jacques. Paul went up to him.
"I found a handkerchief outside just now," he said, forcing a careless
voice. "Perhaps the lady to whom it belongs has just come in?"
"No one has entered for a quart d'heure, Sir Paul. Hélas! It was not so
in the old days. It was always gay then at this time of the night, with the
band playing and all the guests chattering like mad." The maître d'hôtel
breathed a gentle sigh for the halcyon days of long ago.
Momentarily baffled, to his rooms Paul turned again, and threw himself
into a big armchair, where he sat wondering till in the gray light of
morning the formless shadows around him took the shape of the
luxurious furnishings of his suite.
What face had peered at him through the branches? In spite of the token
he had found on the steps, Paul could scarcely believe that the vision
had been one of flesh and blood. The handkerchief with the familiar
scent?--merely an odd coincidence. But still--well, the puzzle might be
worth the solving.
At last he rose, and drawing the heavy hangings close to keep out the
insistent light, he lay down upon his bed, to fall into a troubled sleep.

CHAPTER V
When he awoke it