The House of the Falcon
"The house of the Falcon," she repeated, and rather liked the sound of it.
Smilingly she reflected how once she had dreaded the thought of coming to the house. Now the tiny stone edifice, with its tinier kiosk, seemed to beckon her. It was Donovan's.
It was a poor kind of garden, after all, the roses thin and fast falling to the earth. Weeds overgrew the paths and the stone walls. Edith knew, however, where certain blue grass-flowers were still to be found. She sought for them in the swiftly gathering twilight that falls upon the valleys when the sun is obliterated behind the mountains. That morning she had read Donovan's love in his eyes—truthful eyes that could not lie.
Edith was stooping over a verdant tangle in a corner of the wall when she saw a tall, white-clad figure moving toward her. With her flowers firmly grasped, she rose and extended a hand, smiling not altogether steadily. She had not expected Donovan so soon. Then the blue blossoms fell at her feet, and the hand dropped to her side.
The man was Monsey.
Edith watched, bewildered, as he hastened to her, stooping as he did so under the wall.
"Miss Rand," he said quickly under his breath, "I did not mean to startle you. We must be very quiet. We must leave at once." He was breathing heavily as if he had been running and a muscle twitched persistently in his cheek.
Surprised, she faced him, trying to account for his appearance. Monsey had come from the direction of the small gate through which she had passed to the mosque. She saw him glance toward it anxiously.
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