The Knave of Diamonds | Page 6

voices fell away into distance; the band in the ballroom struck up again, and the woman on the settee in the alcove sat up and prepared to rise.
"Suppose we go down now," she said.
Her companion moved away from the little window as one coming out of a reverie. "Our gallant Major Shirley seems somewhat disgruntled tonight," he said. "Do you know him?"
"Yes, I know him." Her words fell with icy precision.
"So do I." The man's tone was one of sheer amusement. "I had the pleasure of meeting him at the Rifle Club the other day. Someone introduced us. It was great fun. If there were a little more light, I would show you what he looked like. For some reason he wasn't pleased. Do you really want to go downstairs though? It is much nicer here."
She had risen. They were facing one another in the twilight. "Yes," she said, and though still quiet her voice was not altogether even. "I want to go, please."
"Mayn't I tell you something first?" he said.
She stood silent, evidently waiting for his communication.
"It's not of paramount importance," he said. "But I think you may as well know it for your present edification and future guidance. Madam, I am that wicked, wanton, wily fox, that whipper-snapper, that unmitigated bounder--Nap Errol!"
He made the announcement with supreme complacence. It was evident that he felt not the faintest anxiety as to how she would receive it. There was even a certain careless hauteur about him as though the qualities he thus frankly enumerated were to him a source of pride.
She heard him with no sign of astonishment. "I knew it," she said quietly. "I have known you by sight for some time."
"And you were not afraid to speak to such a dangerous scoundrel?" he said.
"You don't strike me as being very formidable," she answered. "Moreover, if you remember, it was you who spoke first."
"To be sure," he said. "It was all of a piece with my habitual confounded audacity. Shall I tell you something more? I wonder whether I dare."
"Wait!" she said imperatively. "It is my turn to tell you something, though it is more than possible that you know it already. Mr. Errol, I am--Lady Carfax!"
He bowed low. "I did know," he said, in a tone from which all hint of banter had departed. "But I thank you none the less for telling me. I much doubted if you would. And that brings me to my second--or is it my third?--confession. I did not take you for Mrs. Damer in the card-room a little while ago. I took you for no one but yourself. No man of ordinary intelligence could do otherwise. But I had been wanting to make your acquaintance all the evening, and no one would be kind enough to present me. So I took the first opportunity that occurred, trusting to the end to justify the means."
"But why have you told me?" she said.
"Because I think you are a woman who appreciates the truth."
"I am," she said. "But I do not often hear it as I have heard it to-night"
He put out his hand to her impulsively. "Say, Lady Carfax, let me go and kick that old scandal-monger into the middle of next week!"
Involuntarily almost she gave her hand in return. "No, you mustn't," she said, laughing faintly. "The fault was ours. You know the ancient adage about listeners. We deserved it all."
"Don't talk about deserts!" he exclaimed, with unexpected vehemence. "He doesn't deserve to have a whole bone left in his body for speaking of you so. Neither do I for suffering it in my presence!"
She freed her hand gently. "You could not have done otherwise. Believe me, I am not altogether sorry that you were with me when it happened. It is just as well that you should know the truth, and I could not have told it you myself. Come, shall we go down?"
"Wait a minute!" he said. "Let me know how I stand with you first. Have you decided to pass over that lie of mine, or are you going to cut me next time we meet?"
"I shall not cut you," she said.
"You are going to acknowledge me then with the coldest of nods, which is even more damnable," he returned, with gloomy conviction.
She hesitated for an instant. Then, "Mr. Errol," she said gently, "will you believe me when I say that, however I treat you in the future, that lie of yours will in no way influence me? You have helped me much more than you realise by your trifling to-night. I am not sure that you meant to do so. But I am grateful to you all the same."
"Then we are friends?" said Nap, quickly.
"Yes, we are friends; but it is very unlikely that we shall meet again. I