Maillot, in a sober manner, presented me. The handsome brown-eyed girl was Miss Belle Fluette; the other was her cousin, Miss Genevieve Cooper. She, too, was strikingly pretty, but instead of brown, her eyes were a deep and wonderful blue. Her hair was wavy and had many of the bronze lights and shadows that lurked in her cousin's reddish tresses, although it approached nearer a chestnut shade than auburn. She was not so tall as Miss Belle, and was more reserved in her demeanor.
Yet, in her sidewise regard of Maillot, there was a humorous, shrewd appreciation of his damaged appearance, connoting worldly knowledge sufficient to ascribe it to causes not precisely complimentary to his sobriety. Both, however, were very lovely, and very jaunty in their turbans and veils and long fur coats, while their cheeks glowed and their eyes sparkled from the crisp wintry air.
Miss Fluette acknowledged the mention of my name a little distantly. She made me feel that she had already surmised trouble, and that she was disposed to hold me accountable for it.
Miss Cooper was more cordial. She was very gracious, in a quiet, reserved way, and the expression of her blue eyes was so congenial that I caught myself more than once attempting to steal a glimpse of her countenance without her observing me, only to be disconcerted by a candid and not at all shy regard.
"Can we not go at once, Royal?" queried Miss Fluette, doubtfully. "It is dreadfully warm and stuffy in here. Jepson is waiting with the carriage."
I understood clearly, of course, that my presence accounted for her constraint. More than likely she would have given much to have got Maillot away immediately; but he replied, with a gravity that did not ease her mind:
"I 'm afraid not, Bell—not for some minutes. Mr. Swift and I have to to discuss Mr. Page's death."
Instantly her countenance reflected a deep concern.
"It is true, then, is it, that your uncle is dead?" she asked in a hushed voice.
His uncle! For the second time that morning I was staggered. Felix Page's nephew and Alfred Fluette's daughter sweethearts! The two men themselves bitter enemies! One lying cold in death—murdered! Is it any wonder that I was stricken speechless?