A Son of the Sahara Part 29

Its white light led them back into harbour, and in its flood the two walked to the hotel together.

In the garden Le Breton paused to take leave of his hostess.

"Just one kiss, Heart's Ease, for the sake of last night," he whispered.

Willingly Pansy lifted her flower-like face to his.

"Just one then, Raoul, you darling, since you've been so nice about everything."

As Le Breton stooped to kiss her it seemed to him that he would not have to resort to force in order to get the girl. Only a little patience and persuasion were needed, and he would win her in her own, white, English way.

CHAPTER XVI

Along the deserted corridor of the big hotel Pansy was hurrying. Her outing with Le Breton had made her late. By the time she was dressed and ready dinner was well started. She went along quickly, still thinking over the events of the day.

Everything had turned out exactly as she had hoped. She wanted to keep Le Breton's love, and yet not be tied in any way--to have him in the background to marry if, or when, she felt so disposed.

In the full glare of the electric light, going down the wide stairs, she entered the large patio, looking a picture.

She was wearing a dress of some yellow, gauzy material that matched her hair, a garment that clung around her like a sunbeam, bright and shimmering. There were gold shoes on her feet, and around her neck a long chain of yellow amber beads.

As she crossed the big, empty hall, making towards the dining-room, a man rose from his chair--the short, red-faced man from whom Le Breton had rescued her a few nights before.

There was an air about him as if he had been waiting there to waylay her.

Pansy saw him and she swerved slightly, but beyond that she gave him no attention.

However, he was not so easily avoided.

He took up his stand immediately before her, leering at her in a malicious, disagreeable fashion.

"You're fond of chucking red-haired women in my teeth," he said. "Go and chuck 'em at the fellow you were spooning with outside just now."

Annoyed that the man should have witnessed her parting with Le Breton, Pansy would have pa.s.sed without a word; but he dodged, and was in front of her again.

"At least, she isn't my fancy woman," he went on. "I don't run a villa for her, even if I do admire her looks."

The weight of insinuation in his voice brought the girl to a halt.

"What is it? What do you want to say?" she asked coldly.

"You mean to tell me you don't know Le Breton runs that French actress, Lucille Lemesurier?"

Pansy did not know. Nor did she believe a word the man said.

"How dare you say such things about Mr. Le Breton?" she flashed.

"Hoity-toity! How dare I indeed!"

He laughed coa.r.s.ely.

"It isn't only me that's talking about it. Everybody knows," he went on.

Everybody did _not_ know. Pansy among the number.

"I don't believe a word you say," she said in an angry manner.

"Don't you? All right. Trot along then, and ask the manager. Ask anybody. They're all talking about it. You would be, too, except that you're so conceited that you never come and gossip with the crowd. Ask who is running that villa for Lucille Lemesurier, and they'll tell you it's that high and mighty French millionaire chap, Le Breton, the same as I do."

For a moment Pansy just stared at him, horror and disbelief on her face; then she turned quickly away. She did not go towards the dining-room, but towards the main entrance of the hotel.

She had never troubled to make any inquiries about Le Breton. She had liked him, and that was enough.

Pansy could not believe what the man said.

For all that, she was going to the fountain-head--to Le Breton--to hear what he had to say on the subject.

CHAPTER XVII

A flood of light poured out from Le Breton's villa, from wide-open French windows on to a moonlit lawn. Around the house, palms drooped and bamboos whispered. The night was laden with the scent of roses and syringa, and about the fragrant shrubs fireflies glinted like showers of silver sparks.

In one of the apartments opening on the lawn Le Breton sat at dinner with Lucille, over a little round table, sparkling with crystal and gold, where pink-shaded electric lights glowed among banks of flowers.

It was a large room, lavishly furnished, with priceless rugs, and furniture that might have come out of some Paris museum. There were three Arab servants in attendance, deft-handed, silent men, well trained, and observant, who waited upon their master as if their lives held nothing but his wishes and desires.

Opposite to him Lucille sat, in a white satin gown that left none of her charms to the imagination, with the emerald necklace flashing against her dead-white skin.

She was talking in a soft, languid voice, sometimes witty, often suggestive, but never at a loss for a subject, as women do talk who are paid well to interest and amuse their masters.

Le Breton did not look either particularly interested or amused. In fact, he looked bored and indifferent, answering her in monosyllables, as if her perpetual chatter interrupted some pleasant reverie of his own.

As he sat, intent on his own thoughts, one of the servants came to his side. Stooping, he said in a deferential voice in Arabic:

"There is the English lady your Highness deigned to breakfast with in the orange groves of Telde."

Le Breton started. He glanced round, his gaze following the Arab's to one of the wide French windows opening on the lawn.

Standing there, light and slight, a graceful, golden reed, was the girl who was now all the world to him.

But Pansy was not looking in his direction, but at Lucille, as if she could not believe what she saw before her.

The sight brought Le Breton quickly to his feet.