negro society was an idea too grotesque to be entertained for a moment.
I was tempted to believe that his presence in the neighbourhood of this haunted Cuban was one of those strange coincidences which in criminal history have sometimes proved so tragic for their victims.
Madame de Stämer, avoiding the Colonel’s glances, which were pathetically apologetic, gradually recovered herself, and:
“My dear,” she said to Val Beverley, “you look perfectly sweet to-night. Don’t you think she looks perfectly sweet, Mr. Knox?”
Ignoring a look of entreaty from the blue-gray eyes:
“Perfectly,” I replied.
“Oh, Mr. Knox,” cried the girl, “why do you encourage her? She says embarrassing things like that every time I put on a new dress.”
Her reference to a new dress set me speculating again upon the apparent anomaly of her presence at Cray’s Folly. That she was not a professional “companion” was clear enough. I assumed that her father had left her suitably provided for, since she wore such expensively simple gowns. She had a delightful trick of blushing when attention was focussed upon her, and said Madame de Stämer:
“To be able to blush like that I would give my string of pearls—no, half of it.”
“My dear Marie,” declared Colonel Menendez, “I have seen you blush perfectly.”
“No, no,” Madame disclaimed the suggestion with one of those Bernhardt gestures, “I blushed my last blush when my second husband introduced me to my first husband’s wife.”
“Madame!” exclaimed Val Beverley, “how can you
