Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo | Page 2

pleased smile of anticipation. She was leaning a little over the table and

her eyes were fixed with humorous intentness upon the spinning wheel.
Even amongst that crowd of beautiful women she possessed a certain
individual distinction. She not only looked what she was--an
Englishwoman of good birth--but there was a certain delicate aloofness
about her expression and bearing which gave an added charm to a
personality which seemed to combine the two extremes of
provocativeness and reserve. One would have hesitated to address to
her even the chance remarks which pass so easily between strangers
around the tables.
"Violet here!" the man murmured under his breath. "Violet!"
There was tragedy in the whisper, a gleam of something like tragedy,
too, in the look which passed between the man and the woman a few
moments later. With her hands full of plaques which she had just won,
she raised her eyes at last from the board. The smile upon her lips was
the delighted smile of a girl. And then, as she was in the act of
sweeping her winnings into her gold bag, she saw the man opposite.
The smile seemed to die from her lips; it appeared, indeed, to pass with
all else of expression from her face. The plaques dropped one by one
through her fingers, into the satchel. Her eyes remained fixed upon him
as though she were looking upon a ghost. The seconds seemed drawn
out into a grim hiatus of time. The croupier's voice, the muttered
imprecation of a loser by her side, the necessity of making some slight
movement in order to allow the passage of an arm from some one in
search of change--some such trifle at last brought her back from the
shadows. Her expression became at once more normal. She did not
remove her eyes but she very slightly inclined her head towards the
man. He, in return, bowed very gravely and without a smile.
The table in front of her was cleared now. People were beginning to
consider their next coup. The voice of the croupier, with his parrot-like
cry, travelled down the board.
"Faites vos jeux, mesdames et messieurs."
The woman made no effort to stake. After a moment's hesitation she
yielded up her place, and moving backwards, seated herself upon an

empty divan. Rapidly the thoughts began to form themselves in her
mind. Her delicate eyebrows drew closer together in a distinct frown.
After that first shock, that queer turmoil of feeling, beyond analysis, yet
having within it some entirely unexpected constituent, she found
herself disposed to be angry. The sensation had not subsided when a
moment or two later she was conscious that the man whose coming had
proved so disturbing was standing before her.
"Good afternoon," he said, a little stiffly.
She raised her eyes. The frown was still upon her forehead, although to
a certain extent it was contradicted by a slight tremulousness of the
lips.
"Good afternoon, Henry!"
For some reason or other, further speech seemed to him a difficult
matter. He moved towards the vacant place.
"If you have no objection," he observed, as he seated himself.
She unfurled her fan--an ancient but wonderful weapon of defence. It
gave her a brief respite. Then she looked at him calmly.
"Of all places in the world," she murmured, "to meet you here!"
"Is it so extraordinary?"
"I find it so," she admitted. "You don't at all fit in, you know. A scene
like this," she added, glancing around, "would scarcely ever be likely to
attract you for its own sake, would it?"
"It doesn't particularly," he admitted.
"Then why have you come?"
He remained silent. The frown upon her forehead deepened.
"Perhaps," she went on coldly, "I can help you with your reply. You

have come because you are not satisfied with the reports of the private
detective whom you have engaged to watch me. You have come to
supplement them by your own investigation."
His frown matched hers. The coldness of his tone was rendered even
more bitter by its note of anger.
"I am surprised that you should have thought me capable of such an
action," he declared. "All I can say is that it is thoroughly in keeping
with your other suspicions of me, and that I find it absolutely
unworthy."
She laughed a little incredulously, not altogether naturally.
"My dear Henry," she protested, "I cannot flatter myself that there is
any other person in the world sufficiently interested in my movements
to have me watched."
"Are you really under the impression that that is the case?" he enquired
grimly.
"It isn't a matter of impression at all," she retorted. "It is the truth. I was
followed from London, I was watched at Cannes, I am watched here
day by day--by a little