beckoning? That she might be suffering some profound grief, or might be the centre of[75] some bit of distressing family history, might well be conceived. But what extraordinary combination of inappropriate events could possibly cause her to seek to buy quittance of such a man as he had left insensible? [75] He sat far into the night, turning all these things over in his mind. Obviously it was not some question of personal honour which involved the necessity of maintaining some sordid and disgraceful secret, or the lady would not be risking her personal safety, and to a great extent her reputation, by being present at such a rendezvous. Whatever it might be—the mystery which embraced her—Paul determined, whether it pleased her or not, that he would range himself on her side. To do this, however, it would be necessary to discover what the mystery was,[76] and he proceeded to set up and then demolish a thousand and one theories to account for her plight; and he was still far from the solution when he fell asleep. [76] [77] [77] CHAPTER VII gain the mid-day sun was gilding the canopy of his couch when Paul awoke. He sprang up and dressed hurriedly. That day he must discover who the lady was. Renewed inquiries of Monsieur Jacques yielded no further information. Rose-red lips and coils of raven hair no longer made on the maître d'hôtel the same impression as in the golden days when the band played dreamy waltzes and dashing gentlemen leaned caressingly over dazzling shoulders. Of the man he had felled, Paul spoke never a word. Apparently he had vanished as he had come—unknown. "Truly, Sir Paul, there has been no[78] lady here to answer your description. But stop! A Russian lady perhaps, you say? Il est possible." Monsieur Jacques laid a searching finger on his speculative brow. "Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, peut-être. Yes—tall, surely,—a brunette, too, like most of those Russians. She left this morning, quite early." [78] Paul's heart leaped, only to stop again at the last sentence.
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