Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 3, 1924 — page 103: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A CROWN in the face. All this had passed in a mo- ment. Bunch was just at the door. She had stayed to give directions to the chauffeur. I turned round and joined her. ‘‘ How is he?” she asked. ‘‘ Doing excellently,” I answered. And I walked out of the hotel. Bunch caught my arm after one look at my face. ‘We are not staying here,” I said. “ We are going back.” I was calm—as calm as Fay Delsarte’s own moonlike face. As soon as he recovered consciousness he had sent for her! ‘‘ Liz, what’s the matter?” Bunch whis- pered. ‘“‘ You can’t go like this. What will people say?”’ ‘“T don’t care what they say,” I an- swered. ‘‘ We are not wanted here. We are going back.” As I walked to my car, I saw inside the great black limousine a bunch of Padre roses in a silver vase. Their wonderful fiery yellowish-rose color, that I had always loved, was hateful to me, mocking the grandeur of the scene, the misery in my heart. How dared she come up here, this wom- an, with her compelling white face, with her quiet brow and deep still eyes, flaunting those flamboyant, meretricious roses as if it were a carnival? I gave the chauffeur directions, and en- tered the car. Bunch followed me. Even her dear presence was hateful. 1 was just raw all over. ‘‘ For Heaven’s sake, what is the mat- ter?” she asked me as we glided off. ‘ Haven’t you guessed?” I flung at her. “ Mme. Delsarte is with him. He sent for her as soon as he came to.” It was a week later that King Peter came to the Villa des Oeuillets. His magnificent constitution had thrown off all effects of the accident. By a miracle he had been neither much cut nor bruised. His hands were badly scratched and one of his ankles rather severely strained. He walked with a stick. I received him with ceremony. I sat alone in the big drawing-room. I had spent FOR SALE. 893 the week in deliberately killing all my ten- der thoughts. I had reminded myself of his outrageous conduct until it was like a canker in my soul, poisoning my whole life. He looked ridiculously young. His face had gone thin, and had lost a little of its tan, and his eyes were just like bits of blue fire. He looked at me, half smiling, apologet- ic, embarrassed, and yet mischievous. My heart gave a great leap. He was still so irresistible to me when I beheld him in the flesh. But I had made up my mind. My mind was steel, my heart was dead. Betty Fane had played her cards. She had risked her all—and lost. ‘ T suppose you are enraged with me,” he said, using those. actual words in Trench. “Sir,” I answered in the formal phrase I had rehearsed a hundred times a day, “ if you will permit me, I wish to be released from my promise to you.” “‘ T ought to have expected that,” he said, sitting down suddenly with his injured leg straight out in front of him. “ Do you know, I don’t think you and I ever under- stood each other?” “T do not think it is necessary now,” I answered stiffly. ‘Your majesty offered the other day to release me.” “TI know, and I am quite willing to. But first—will you answer me a few questions?” ‘* Certainly, sir.” “How did you hear about my acci- dent?” ‘* A message was brought here, sir.”’ “ By whom?” “IT do not know. I did not see the mes- senger.”’ That was true enough. I could not see myself. “A lady?” “Miss Turke said a young woman.” “She simply told you where I was and what had happened?”’ “Yes. We rang up the Princess de Chanterelle and the King of Maronia.” ‘‘ And the next morning you very kindly started out to come to me.” “We thought we could be of use-—Miss Turke and I.”’ COMIGD OO! (©