You must stay at the same hotel in
New York, and try and find out what his business is there. Remember,
we want to know, my mistress and I, everything that he does."
"Who is he?" he asked. "A friend of your mistress?"
"No!" she answered shortly, "an enemy. A cruel enemy--the cruelest
enemy a woman could have!"
The subdued passion of her tone thrilled him. He felt himself
bewildered--in touch with strange things. She leaned a little closer
towards him, and that mysterious perfume, which was one of her many
fascinations, dazed him with its sweetness.
"If you could send home word," she whispered, "that he was ill, that
anything had happened to him, that he was not likely to return--our
fortunes would be made--yours and mine."
"Stop!" he muttered. "You--phew! It's hot here!"
He wiped the perspiration recklessly from his forehead with a red silk
handkerchief.
"What made you come to me?" he asked. "I don't even know the name of
your mistress."
"And you must not ask it," she declared quietly. "It is better for you
not to know. I came to you because you were a man, and I knew that I
could trust you."
Her flattery sank into his soul. No one else had ever called him a
man. He felt himself capable of great things. To think that, but for
the coming of this wonderful Mademoiselle Violet, he might even now
have been furnishing a small shop on the outskirts of Islington, with
collars and ties and gloves designed to attract the youth of that
populous neighborhood!
"When do I start?" he asked with a coolness which surprised himself.
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