Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo | Page 8

report be true," said Lady Ranscomb.
"She fascinates me," Dorise declared. "If Monsieur Courtin had not
warned us I should most probably have spoken to her."
"Oh, my dear, you must do no such thing!" cried her mother, horrified.
"It was extremely kind of monsieur to give us the hint. He has probably
seen how unconventional you are, Dorise."
And then, as they strolled on into the farther room, the conversation
dropped.
"So they've heard about Mademoiselle, it seems!" remarked Brock to
his friend as they walked back to the Palmiers together in the moonlight
after having seen Lady Ranscomb and her daughter to their hotel.
"Yes," growled the other. "I wish we could get hold of that Monsieur
Courtin. He might tell us a bit about her."
"I doubt if he would. These French officials are always close as
oysters."
"At any rate, I will try and make his acquaintance at the Metropole
to-morrow," Hugh said. "There's no harm in trying."
Next morning he called again at the Metropole before the ladies were
about, but to his chagrin, he learnt from the blue-and-gold concierge
that Monsieur Courtin, of the Ministry of Justice, had left at ten- fifteen
o'clock on the previous night by the /rapide/ for Paris. He had been
recalled urgently, and a special /coupe-lit/ had been reserved for him
from Ventimiglia.

That day Hugh Henfrey wandered about the well-kept palm-lined
gardens with their great beds of geraniums, carnations and roses. Brock
had accepted the invitation of a bald-headed London stock-broker he
knew to motor over to lunch and tennis at the Beau Site, at Cannes,
while Dorise and her mother had gone with some people to lunch at the
Reserve at Beaulieu, one of the best and yet least pretentious
restaurants in all Europe, only equalled perhaps by Capsa's, in
Bucharest.
"Ah! If she would only tell!" Hugh muttered fiercely to himself as he
walked alone and self-absorbed. His footsteps led him out of Monte
Carlo and up the winding road which runs to La Turbie, above the
beautiful bay. Ever and anon powerful cars climbing the hill smothered
him in white dust, yet he heeded them not. He was too full of thought.
"Ah!" he kept on repeating to himself. "If she would only tell the
truth--if she would only tell!"
Hugh Henfrey had not travelled to Monte Carlo without much careful
reflection and many hours of wakefulness. He intended to clear up the
mystery of his father's death--and more, the reason of that strange
incomprehensible will which was intended to wed him to Louise.
At four o'clock that afternoon he entered the Rooms to gain another
surreptitious look at Mademoiselle. Yes! She was there, still playing on
as imperturbably as ever, with that half-suppressed sinister smile
always upon her full red lips.
Sight of her aroused his fury. Was that smile really intended for himself?
People said she was a sphinx, but he drew his breath, and when outside
the Casino again in the warm sunshine he halted upon the broad
red-carpeted steps and beneath his breath said in a hard, determined
tone:
"Gad! She shall tell me! She shall! I'll compel her to speak--to tell me
the truth--or--or----!"
That evening he wrote a note to Dorise explaining to her that he was

not feeling very well and excusing himself from going round to the
hotel. This he sent by hand to the Metropole.
Brock did not turn up at dinner. Indeed, he did not expect his friend
back till late. So he ate his meal alone, and then went out to the Cafe de
Paris, where for an hour he sat upon the /terrasse/ smoking and
listening to the weird music of the red-coated orchestra of Roumanian
gipsies.
All the evening, indeed, he idled, chatting with men and women he
knew. /Carmen/ was being given at the Opera opposite, but though he
loved music he had no heart to go. The one thought obsessing him was
of the handsome and fascinating woman who was such a mystery to all.
At eleven o'clock he returned to the cafe and took a seat on the
/terrasse/ in a dark corner, in such a position that he could see anyone
who entered or left the Casino. For half an hour he watched the people
passing to and fro. At last, in a long jade-green coat, Mademoiselle
emerged alone, and, crossing the gardens, made her way leisurely home
on foot, as was her habit. Monte Carlo is not a large place, therefore
there is little use for taxis.
When she was out of sight, he called the waiter to bring him a liqueur
of old cognac, which he sipped, and then lit another cigarette. When he
had finished it he drained the little glass, and rising, strolled in the
direction