It seemed to Ribero that the glance Saxon flashed on her was almost the glance of gratitude.
“What was his name?” she suddenly demanded.
“He called himself—at that time—George Carter,” Ribero said slowly, “but gentlemen in the unrecognized pursuits quite frequently have occasion to change their names. Now, it is probably something else.”
After the dinner had ended, while the guests fell into groups or waited for belated carriages, Saxon found himself standing apart, near the window. It was open on the balcony, and the man felt a sudden wish for the quiet freshness of the outer air on his forehead. He drew back the curtain, and stepped across the low sill, then halted as he realized that he was not alone.
The sputtering arc-light swinging over the street made the intervening branches and leaves of the sidewalk sycamores stand out starkly black, like a ragged drop hung over a stage.
The May moon was only a thin sickle, and the other figure on the darkly shadowed balcony was vaguely defined, but Saxon at once recognized, in its lithe slenderness and grace of pose, Miss Filson.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he hastily apologized. “I didn’t know you were here.”
She laughed. “Would that have frightened you?” she asked.
She was leaning on the iron rail, and the man took his place at her side.
“I came with the Longmores,” she explained, “and their machine hasn’t come yet. It’s cool here—and I was thinking—”