And I
guessed from a sudden uprush of Irish accent that his anxiety had grown
sincere.
We hurried home; Brian seeming almost to guide us, for without his
instinct for the right way we would twice have taken a wrong turning. As
we came into the Place Stanislas, still a pale oasis of moonlight, I saw
standing in front of the hotel two figures, black as if cut out of
velvet. One, that of a man, was singularly tall and thin, as a
Mephistopheles of the stage. The other was that of a woman in a long
cloak, small and slight as a child of fourteen. Dierdre O'Farrell, of
course! It could be no one else. But who was the man? A dim impression
that the figure was vaguely familiar, or had been familiar long ago,
teased my brain. But surely I could never have seen it before.
"Hurrah! There she is!" cried O'Farrell, "alive and on her pins!"
At the sound of his voice, the velvet silhouettes stirred. They had
turned to look at us, and a glint of moonlight made the two faces white
and blank as masks. O'Farrell waved his hand, and I was obliged to
quicken my steps to keep pace with Brian: "I suppose she got lost--serve
her right!--and the beanpole has escorted her home," grumbled Puck; but
as he spoke, the beanpole in question hurriedly made a gesture of
salute, and stalked away with enormous strides. In an instant he was
engulfed by a shadow-wave and his companion was left to meet us alone. I
thought it would be like her to whisk into the hotel and vanish before
we could arrive, but she did not.
Pages:
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126