CHAPTER XI
Raoul Le Breton took Pansy's riddle home to solve. He went about it in his own private sanctum. Seating himself at the desk, he wrote out the verse, with a French-English dictionary, making sure his spelling was correct. Then he set out to find the solution.
He was not long in doing so.
Afterwards he sat on, gazing at the pansies in the crystal bowl on the desk, a tender look on his arrogant face.
A daring little creature, that beautiful English girl, frank as the boy she looked in her riding suit, with attractions beyond those of her sex and beauty; a courage that roused his admiration; a kindness that moved his heart; a disinterestedness sweet as it was novel; an ability to touch parts of his being no woman had touched before, and with a subtle something about her that brought him an ease of spirit he rarely experienced. "Heart's Ease," truly!
As he brooded on Pansy he forgot his vengeance—that he was only waiting in Grand Canary until quite certain Sir George Barclay was on his way to Gambia.
He thought only of the velvety-eyed girl who had answered him so deftly and laughingly.
The riddle had told him the one thing he would ask her to do; his two words, spelt with six letters:
"Love me."
The fact sent Le Breton to the hotel that evening for an interview with the verse-maker.
The place was a blaze of light and a crash of music. In the big patio the usual bi-weekly dance was taking place, and a crowd of people disported themselves to the strains of a ragtime band.
Le Breton made a striking figure in evening clothes, and more than one woman glanced at him with invitation. He took no notice of them. All he wanted was a slim girl with a mop of short, dancing, golden curls. The room was so crowded that he could get no glimpse of his quarry, although he altered his point of view several times.
At the end of half an hour he decided to take a turn round the grounds.
The garden was soft with moonlight, filled with a misty brightness, and the palms hung limp and sighing. From beyond the wall came the murmur of the sea. Syringa and roses filled the night with perfume. At one spot a fountain sang sweetly to itself.
There Le Breton lingered with the moonlight and the ebony shadows, the tropical trees sighing languorously around him.
As he waited there, deep in some reverie of his own, the sound of footsteps reached him. Then, from an adjacent path, voices talking in English—a man's thick, low, and protesting, then a girl's clear and indignant.
"When did I encourage you?" she asked, her voice raised in righteous anger. "Once you brought me a cup of tea I didn't want. Twice you mixed my books and papers with somebody else's. I was three times your partner at Bridge, and that wasn't any fault of mine. I defy you to mention more encouragement than that. Go to your woman with red hair, and don't talk nonsense to me."
The man's voice came again. Then there was a little cry of anger and the sound of a struggle.
The girl's voice brought Le Breton out of his reverie. He knew it, although he could not follow a quarter of what was said. But the little cry and the subsequent scuffle sent him quickly in that direction.
He saw Pansy struggling vainly to get away from a short, thick-set man with a red face and fishy eyes, who held her by one bare arm.
Le Breton was not long in covering the distance that lay between himself and the couple. His coming made Pansy's persecutor let go quickly, and make off. The girl had been struggling with all her might to escape from his coarse, hot grip. And she was too intent on getting out of an undesirable situation even to notice that someone's approach was responsible for her sudden freedom.
The force of her struggles sent her staggering backwards, right on Le Breton. His arm went round her. He held her pressed against him, his hand on her heart.
It seemed to Pansy, she had gotten out of the frying-pan into the fire.
Quivering with indignation she looked up. Then she laughed in a tremulous manner.
"Oh, it's you, is it? I wondered who else was on my trail."
"You ought not to be out at night alone," he said severely. "A beautiful girl is a temptation to any man."
"I'm no temptation. It's my money. He likes women with red hair."
Le Breton scanned Pansy more closely.
He had noticed she was dressed in white, but with her unexpectedly in his arms he had not troubled to look further.
She was wearing a dress of chiffon, light as air, vague as moonlight, that clung about her like a mist, caught up here and there with tiny diamond buckles which made the garment look as if studded with dewdrops. And on a thin platinum chain about her neck was hung one great sparkling drop of light.
Le Breton knew real gems when he saw them, and that one diamond alone was worth a fortune.
He bent his proud head, until his lips just touched the fluff of golden curls.
"Who are you really, Pansy?" he asked softly.
"You despise and dislike me already, so why should I get further into your black books?"
"I, despise and dislike you?"
"You said you disliked all the English."
"I'm quite willing to make an exception in your favour."
"When you learn the truth you'll 'detest' me."
"Never!" he said emphatically.
"Well then, I'm 'that woman of the name of Langham.'"
"You!" he exclaimed.
Then he laughed.
"Pansy, you're a little creature of rare surprises."
The surprise held him silent for some moments. Or else it was sufficient to have the girl there, unresisting against his heart.
Up till now Pansy had avoided all male arms as far as it was possible for a girl who was beautiful, wealthy and light-hearted. Whenever caught she had wriggled out indignantly.
From the arm that held her now she made no attempt to escape. A fearsome fascination lay within its embrace. It seemed that he would have but to close the hand that rested on her bosom, and her heart would be in his grip, snatched out of her keeping before she knew it.
Suddenly it dawned on Pansy that if she stayed there much longer she would want to stay for ever.
One by one she lifted the sinewy, brown fingers from her dress, holding them in one hand as she went about her task with the other.
With a slight smile Le Breton watched her. But when the last of his fingers was removed, she was still a prisoner, held secure within his arm.
Then Pansy descended to strategy.
"Mr. Le Breton, will you lend me your handkerchief?" she asked in a mild tone.
"Why do you want it?" the voice of the master demanded.
"To dip it in the fountain there and wash my arm. It feels all horrid and nasty and clammy where that odious man touched it," she said meekly.
The sentiment was one Le Breton approved of and sympathised with.
Letting her go, he drew out his handkerchief.
Taking it, Pansy turned towards the fountain. He followed and stood beside her, obviously waiting until her task was finished before carrying the situation further.
As Pansy scrubbed away at her arm, she kept a rather nervous eye on him.
When the task was completed, she screwed the handkerchief up into a loose, wet ball. But she did not throw it on the ground as Le Breton expected and was waiting for her to do, before taking her into his arms again.
Instead, she threw it into his face.
It took him by surprise; an indignity that had not come his way hitherto. People were not in the habit of throwing wet handkerchiefs with stinging force into the face of the Sultan Casim Ammeh.
The force and wetness temporarily blinded him. He was perhaps ten seconds in recovering his sight and his dignity.
Then he looked for the girl.
She was running as fast as she could away from him, down a misty, moonlit path, in her chiffon and diamonds looking a shimmer of moonlight and sparkling dew herself.
Pansy's only desire just then was to get out of the white, romantic moonlit world with its scents and sighs and seductive murmurs, back to one of electric light and ragtime, where there was no Raoul Le Breton looking at her gravely, with glowing eyes.
He had suddenly become a startling menace to her cherished liberty, this big, dark man with his masterful air and high-handed ways.
Whatever he said she would have to listen to. Perhaps even—agree with!