“Do you know many people there?”
“Oh, a few.”
“Ach … I wonder.… You must know that I met her there, my divine Lucille!”
“Lucille! How strange! That is my wife’s name too.”
“Really?” Zu Pfeiffer still peered dreamily at the corner. He gathered up his legs and rose like an eager boy. “Permit me, Herr Professor, she is so—so——” He bent over the portrait and struck a match. Politely Birnier stooped to look. He saw a portrait of a French [pg 48] woman in an evening gown, a woman of charm with the vivacious eyes and tempting mouth of the coquette.
“My God!”
Birnier bent closer and stared intently. Across the corner of the photograph were written in ink in familiar characters the words: ‘à toi, Lucille.’
“Lucille!” he gasped. “Lu—Good God!” He stood up abruptly. “I—What in God’s name—who is this woman?”
The match fell to the floor. He was vaguely conscious of the tall white figure stiffening as a dog does.
“That lady is my fiancée.”