“What success, my friend?”
“It’s all right,” replies the Goddess of Liberty; “I have seen the lady.”
A moment more and her satin skirts trail across the toes of a tall fellow in the dress of a British officer, who is leaning against a vine-wreathed pillar, intently watching the crowd through his yellow mask. At sight of the Goddess of Liberty, he starts forward and a sharp exclamation crosses his lips.
“Shades of Moses,” he mutters to himself, “I can’t be mistaken; that is Dick Stanhope’s Vienna costume! Is that Dick inside it? It is! it must be! What is he doing? On a lay, or on a lark? Dick Stanhope is not given to this sort of frolic; I must find out what it means!”
And Van Vernet leaves his post of observation and follows slowly, keeping the unconscious Goddess of Liberty always in sight.
Passing through a net-work of vines, the British officer comes upon two people in earnest conversation. The one wears a scarlet and black domino, the other a coquettish Carmen costume.
“That black and red domino is my patron,” mutters the officer as he glides by unnoticed. “He does not see me and I do not wish to see him just at present.” A few steps farther and the British officer comes to a sudden halt.
“By Heavens!” he ejaculates, half aloud; “what a chance I see before me! It would be worth something to know what brought Dick Stanhope here to-night; it would be worth yet more to keep him here until after midnight. If I had an accomplice to detain him while I, myself, appear at the Agency in time, then the C – street Raid would move without him, the lead would be given to me. It’s worth trying for. It shall be done, and my patron in black and red shall help me.”
He turns, and only looks back to mutter:
“Go on, Dick Stanhope; this night shall begin the trial that, when ended, shall decide which of the two is the better man!”
And the British officer hurries straight on until he stands beside the black and scarlet domino.
CHAPTER IX.
“A FALSE MOVE IN THE GAME.”
Pretty, piquant Winnifred French was the staunch friend of Leslie Warburton.
When Winnie was the petted only daughter of “French, the rich merchant,” she and Leslie Uliman had been firm friends. When Leslie Uliman, the adopted daughter of the aristocratic Uliman’s, gave her hand in marriage to Archibald Warburton, a wealthy invalid and a widower with one child, Winnie was her first bridesmaid.
Time had swept away the fortune of French, the merchant, and death had robbed Leslie of her adopted parents, and then Winnifred French gladly accepted the position of salaried companion to her dearest friend.
Not long after, Alan Warburton had returned from abroad, and then had begun a queer complication.
For some reason known only to himself, Alan Warburton had chosen to dislike his beautiful sister-in-law, and he had conceived a violent admiration for Winnie, – an admiration which might have been returned, perhaps, had Winnie been less loyal in her friendship for Leslie. But, perceiving Alan’s dislike for her dearest friend, Winnie lost no opportunity for annoying him, and lavishing upon him her stinging sarcasms.
On her part, Leslie Warburton loved her companion with a strong sisterly affection. As for her feelings toward Alan Warburton, it would have been impossible to guess, from her manner, whether he was to her an object of love, hatred, or simple indifference.
When Winnie and Alan turned their backs upon the scene in the anteroom, and entered the dancing hall, the girl was in a particularly perverse mood.
“I shall not dance,” she said petulantly. “It’s too early and too warm,” and she entered a flowery alcove, and seated herself upon a couch overhung with vines.
“May I sit down, Winnie?”
“No.”
“Just for a moment’s chat.” And he seated himself as calmly as if he had received a gracious permission.
“You are angry with me again, Winnie. Is my sister-in-law always to come between us?”
She turned and her blue eyes flashed upon him.
“Once and for all,” she said sharply, “tell me why you hate Leslie so?”
“Tell me why she has poisoned your mind against me?” he retorted.
“She! Leslie Warburton! This goes beyond a joke, sir. Leslie Warburton is what Leslie Uliman was, a lady, in thought, word, and deed. Oh, I can read you, sir! Her crime, in your eyes, is that she has married your brother. Is she not a good and faithful wife; a tender, loving mother to little Daisy? You have hinted that she does not love her husband – by what right do you make the assertion? You believe that she has married for money, – at least these are fashionable sins! Humph! In all probability I shall marry for money myself.”
“Winnifred!”
“I shall; I am sure of it. It’s an admirable feature of our best society. If we are heiresses, we are surrounded with lovers who are fascinated by our bank account. If we are poor, we are all in search of a bank account; and many of us have to do some sharp angling.”
“My sister-in-law angled very successfully.”
“So she did, if you will put it so. And she did not land her last chance; she might have married as wealthy a man as Mr. Warburton, or as handsome a man as his brother. But then,” with a provoking little gesture of disdain, “Leslie and I never did admire handsome men.”
There was just a shade of annoyance in the voice that answered her:
“Pray go on, Miss French; doubtless yourself and Mrs. Warburton have other tastes in common.”
“So we have,” retorted the girl, rising and standing directly before him, “but I won’t favor you with a list of them. You don’t like Leslie, and I do; but let me tell you, Mr. Alan Warburton, if the day ever comes when you know Leslie Warburton as I know her, you will go down into the dust, ashamed that you have so misjudged, so wronged, so slandered one who is as high as the stars above you. And now I am going to join the dancers; you can come – or stay.”
The last words were flung at him over her shoulder, and before he could rise to follow, she had vanished in the throng that was surging to and fro without the alcove.
He starts forward as if about to pursue her, and then sinks back upon the couch.
“I won’t be a greater fool than nature made me,” he mutters in scornful self-contempt. “If I go, she’ll flirt outrageously under my very nose; if I stay – she’ll flirt all the same, of course. Ah! if a man would have a foretaste of purgatory let him live under the same roof with the woman he loves and the woman he hates!”
A shadow comes between his vision and the gleam of light from without, and, lifting his eyes, he encounters two steady orbs gazing out from behind a yellow mask.
“Ah!” He half rises again, then sinks back and motions the mask to the seat beside him.
“I recognize your costume,” he says, as the British officer seats himself. “How long since you came?”
“Only a few moments. I have been waiting for your interview with the lady to end.”
“Ah!” with an air of abstraction; then, recalling himself: “Do you know the nature of the work required of you?”
Under his mask, Van Vernet’s face flamed and he bit his lip with vexation. This man in black and scarlet, this aristocrat, addressed him, not as one man to another, but loftily as a king to a subject. But there was no sign of annoyance in his voice as he replied:
“Um