“But NO, madame,” insisted Madame Brossard, excited but darkly determined. “You cannot ascend. There is nothing on the upper floor of this wing except the apartment of Professor Keredec.”
“Name of a dog!” shrilled the other. “It is my husband’s apartment, I tell you. Il y a une femme avec lui!”
“It is Madame Harman who is there,” said Keredec hoarsely in my ear. “I came away and left them together.”
“Come,” I said, and, letting the others think what they would, sprang across the veranda, the professor beside me, and ran toward the two women who were beginning to struggle with more than their tongues. I leaped by them and up the steps, but Keredec thrust himself between our hostess and her opponent, planting his great bulk on the lowest step. Glancing hurriedly over my shoulder, I saw the Spanish woman strike him furiously upon the breast with both hands, but I knew she would never pass him.
I entered the salon of the “Grande Suite,” and closed the door quickly behind me.
Louise Harman was standing at the other end of the room; she wore the pretty dress of white and lilac and the white hat. She looked cool and beautiful and good, and there were tears in her eyes. To come into this quiet chamber and see her so, after the hot sunshine and tawdry scene below, was like leaving the shouting market-place for a shadowy chapel.
Her husband was kneeling beside her; he held one of her hands in both his, her other rested upon his head; and something in their attitudes made me know I had come in upon their leave-taking. But from the face he lifted toward her all trace of his tragedy had passed: the wonder and worship written there left no room for anything else.
“Mrs. Harman—” I began.
“Yes?” she said. “I am coming.”
“But I don’t want you to. I’ve come for fear you would, and you—you must not,” I stammered. “You must wait.”