I do want to talk to you.” Then collecting his scattered senses, he asked a dozen questions rapidly. “Who was the Apache fellow? Why did you snub me this afternoon? What was the meaning of the note you left for me at the ‘Queen’s,’ Southport? Oh, Gilda, tell me what is the meaning of all this mystery! If there is any trouble let me help you.”

The girl, with a sob, replied: “Sir Raife, don’t ask me any questions. Trust me. It is very hard for me—but don’t ask questions. Let us walk back along the Promenade des Anglais.” Then, dreamily, as if to herself, she added: “Yes—the promenade of the English. We are English. At least, there is no doubt that you are. I sometimes wonder what I am.”

They walked together until they reached the promenade again. There, under the light of a street-lamp, they renewed their talk. He, still interrogative, asked questions to which she would or could not reply. All she would say was, “Please! Please, don’t ask me questions. Just trust me,” and, with a soft tremor in her tones, she added: “Will you be my friend?”

Raife’s conquest was complete. All sense of mistrust had disappeared with the first seductive notes of the voice he had longed to hear again, and, to-night, that voice was his.

“I trust you. I trust you implicitly, and I will be your friend.”

For good or evil his word was given, and the word of a Remington was never lightly given. Passion or love, call it what you will, has led men and women into strangely incongruous and many dangerous situations. This promise, given with the impetuosity of youth aglow and veins afire, might lead to tragic disaster or the consummation of a pure and natural union.

The flow of lover’s conversation is frequently intermittent, and sometimes erratic, and now there was a lull in the talk. At length Gilda said: “I read in the newspapers that your father was killed—or murdered by an armed burglar.” Raife shuddered at the allusion. Continuing, she added: “Did you see the body of the murderer?”

Raife said: “Oh, yes! I saw the body of the brute.”

“What was he like?”

“He didn’t look much like a burglar. At least, not like the burglars we’ve read about in books and that sort of thing.”

“How sad it must have been for you all—for you—and your mother.”

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