A Son of the Sahara Part 12

Out from the shadows Pansy scanned the man. She could not see much, except that he was big and of splendid proportions. But he had a well-bred air, and his deep voice, if imperious, was pleasant and cultured.

Then her eyes started to sparkle with mischief.

"My room is number three on the first floor," she said. "Don't knock; come straight in. I'll leave the door ajar. I don't want to disturb my neighbours with my midnight prowls."

"Very well. I'll be there in ten minutes or so,"

They parted company, Le Breton going along the sh.o.r.e, Pansy up the shadowed steps.

On reaching her own room she switched on the light.

Slipping off her sodden garments, she dried herself quickly and put on a low-necked, short-sleeved, silk nightgown embroidered with purple pansies. Giving a quick, vigorous rub to her curls, she opened the door an inch or so. Then she skipped into bed and sat there, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, delighted with the surprise she had prepared for the man.

Unaware of what was in store for him, Le Breton returned to the hotel.

Knowing the place well, he made his way noiselessly along the dim, deserted corridor towards a door that stood slightly ajar, letting out a sharp knife of light. He was in shirt and trousers, and in his hand he carried a small jewelled flask.

Without any preamble he went into the room.

The apartment he entered was a sumptuous one to average eyes, the best the hotel boasted.

On the wide dressing-table was a litter of silver toilet appointments, each with a pansy in purple enamel on it.

Le Breton did not give the room a glance.

He had eyes for nothing but the figure sitting up in bed. A figure no longer in pyjamas--they lay in a wet heap in the middle of the floor--but in a pretty nightgown; and from beneath a flood of golden curls wide, purple eyes looked at him, sparkling with innocent mischief.

It was no boy who had come to his a.s.sistance, but a girl! A lovely girl with a full, perfect mouth, vividly red, a milk-white skin and cheeks where roses bloomed.

He backed slightly and locked the door, as if the situation were one he was quite accustomed to and equal to dealing with.

"There's no need to lock the door," Pansy said.

"It's on your account, not mine. A little incident of this sort won't damage my reputation."

"I'd forgotten about my reputation," she said, a note of concern in her voice. "I only thought about giving you a surprise."

"It is. A most delightful one, too. In fact, I don't think I've ever experienced anything quite so delightful and unexpected," he responded drily.

He crossed to the bed, and stood looking at the girl with a critical, appreciative air. And Pansy looked at him with candid, friendly gaze, taking stock of him equally.

He struck her as being remarkably good-looking, but his expression was too arrogant, his mouth too hard; it even had a suspicion of cruelty.

He had an air, too, of having ridden rough-shod over people all his days. In spite of his well-groomed, well-bred appearance, there was a suggestion of the wild about him, as if he had never been properly broken in.

There was a brief silence as the two surveyed one another.

Le Breton was the first to speak, and his remark was of a critical nature.

"Why do you wear your hair short? It would suit you far better long, as a woman's hair ought to be."

"I like it short. It's less trouble."

There was a note in her voice as if his or any man's opinion about her appearance did not worry her in the least; an air of thorough independence, out of keeping with her years, that he was quick to notice.

"Do you always do as you like?" he asked.

"Always. It's an excellent habit to cultivate, and one you've cultivated to the fullest by the look of you, since criticism is the order of the day," she replied.

Le Breton thought of the desert kingdom he had ruled with undisputed sway for sixteen years.

"I dare say I do as I like more than most people you've come across,"

he answered with emphasis.

Pansy dimpled.

There was an air about her visitor as if he expected and were accustomed to people standing in awe of him. However, he did not inspire her with this feeling, only with a desire to tease and plague him; he was so big and masterful looking, as if he thought himself "monarch of all he surveyed," even herself, at that moment.

"Are you in the habit of asking strange men to your bedroom?" he asked suddenly.

"If I remember rightly, you volunteered to come."

"And now I'm here, what am I supposed to do?"

"To be _most_ surprised. To give me a drink of brandy; and then go, nicely and quietly, like a good 'boy.'"

An amused look crossed Le Breton's face. Innocent mischief had not come into his life before.

"I am most surprised," he said. "I flattered myself I could tell a woman anywhere."

"I'm not a woman, not until next year. So that must account for your deplorable mistake."

"You look even younger than twenty. Are you English or American?"

"Why can't I have a choice of being either French or Russian or Italian or Spanish or German?"

"Only an English or an American girl would play this sort of a trick.

Not that I've had any dealings with either. I'd like to hear you were American."

"What's wrong with being English?"

"I dislike and despise the English," he replied, a latent note of savagery in his deep voice.

"Then you'll have to dislike and despise me, because I'm one of them."

Pansy stretched out her hand. The action brought into view a network of disfiguring red ridges and scars on her upper arm, marring an otherwise perfect limb.

"Please give me a drink," she finished.

The excitement of the surprise she had prepared was dying down, leaving her looking what she really was--worn out with the exertion of saving him.