The Woman in the Alcove | Page 7

to find him already on his feet.
"Enjoy your dance," he cried; "I have a word to say to Mrs.
Fairbrother," and was gone before my new partner had taken me on his

arm.
Was Mrs. Fairbrother the lady with the diamond? Yes; as I turned to
enter the parlor with my partner, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Durand's tall
figure just disappearing from the step behind the sage-green curtains.
"Who is Mrs. Fairbrother?" I inquired of Mr. Fox at the end of the
dance.
Mr. Fox, who is one of society's perennial beaux, knows everybody.
"She is--well, she was Abner Fairbrother's wife. You know Fairbrother,
the millionaire who built that curious structure on Eighty-sixth Street.
At present they are living apart--an amicable understanding, I believe.
Her diamond makes her conspicuous. It is one of the most remarkable
stones in New York, perhaps in the United States. Have you observed
it?"
"Yes--that is, at a distance. Do you think her very handsome?"
"Mrs. Fairbrother? She's called so, but she's not my style." Here he
gave me a killing glance. "I admire women of mind and heart. They do
not need to wear jewels worth an ordinary man's fortune."
I looked about for an excuse to leave this none too desirable partner.
"Let us go back into the long hall," I urged. "The ceaseless whirl of
these dancers is making me dizzy."
With the ease of a gallant man he took me on his arm and soon we were
promenading again in the direction of the alcove. A passing glimpse of
its interior was afforded me as we turned to retrace our steps in front of
the yellow divan. The lady with the diamond was still there. A fold of
the superb pink velvet she wore protruded across the gap made by the
half-drawn curtains, just as it had done a half-hour before. But it was
impossible to see her face or who was with her. What I could see,
however, and did, was the figure of a man leaning against the wall at
the foot of the steps. At first I thought this person unknown to me, then
I perceived that he was no other than the chief guest of the evening, the
Englishman of whom I have previously spoken.
His expression had altered. He looked now both anxious and absorbed,
particularly anxious and particularly absorbed; so much so that I was
not surprised that no one ventured to approach him. Again I wondered
and again I asked myself for whom or for what he was waiting. For Mr.
Durand to leave this lady's presence? No, no, I would not believe that.
Mr. Durand could not be there still; yet some women make it difficult

for a man to leave them and, realizing this, I could not forbear casting a
parting glance behind me as, yielding to Mr. Fox's importunities, I
turned toward the supper-room. It showed me the Englishman in the act
of lifting two cups of coffee from a small table standing near the
reception-room door. As his manner plainly betokened whither he was
bound with this refreshment, I felt all my uneasiness vanish, and was
able to take my seat at one of the small tables with which the
supper-room was filled, and for a few minutes, at least, lend an ear to
Mr. Fox's vapid compliments and trite opinions. Then my attention
wandered.
I had not moved nor had I shifted my gaze from the scene before me
the ordinary scene of a gay and well-filled supper-room, yet I found
myself looking, as if through a mist I had not even seen develop, at
something as strange, unusual and remote as any phantasm, yet distinct
enough in its outlines for me to get a decided impression of a square of
light surrounding the figure of a man in a peculiar pose not easily
imagined and not easily described. It all passed in an instant, and I sat
staring at the window opposite me with the feeling of one who has just
seen a vision. Yet almost immediately I forgot the whole occurrence in
my anxiety as to Mr. Durand's whereabouts. Certainly he was amusing
himself very much elsewhere or he would have found an opportunity of
joining me long before this. He was not even in sight, and I grew weary
of the endless menu and the senseless chit chat of my companion, and,
finding him amenable to my whims, rose from my seat at table and
made my way to a group of acquaintances standing just outside the
supper-room door. As I listened to their greetings some impulse led me
to cast another glance down the hall toward the alcove. A man--a
waiter--was issuing from it in a rush. Bad news was in his face, and