This was a most exasperating if, a heart-wracking if, an if that made him pause among the ruins of his ancient friendship. He could not believe that it was altogether to chance that he and Hermia owed Olga's discovery of their strange intimacy. In his infatuation he had forgotten that the Château de Cahors was near Alençon and that here was a spot which should at any costs have been avoided. Hermia must have known, too, and yet it seems they had both rushed to their danger with heedlessness which deserved no better fate. But their pursuit and the certainty with which Olga provided the culminating drama created a belief, in his own mind, at least, that had he and Hermia been in Kamschatka, their discomfiture would have been just as surely accomplished. If Olga's motives still remained shrouded in mystery, it was clear that her object had been to bring their companionship to an end, and this she had done, though not precisely in the way she had planned. Hermia hadn't believed that rot about La Croix and Compiègne. Olga had overshot the mark. Her pleasantry with the loaded shotgun had been better aimed and her frightened game had fallen. It angered him to think how ruthless had been her plan, mediæval in its simplicity, and how successful she had been in carrying it out. As to her motives—Hermia had insisted that Olga wanted to marry him! Olga and he!
With a muttered word Markham rose from his bench and made his way toward the Arch. Its phase of splendor had passed, for the dusk had fallen swiftly, but its bulk loomed in ghostly grandeur, a solemn sentinel at the meeting place of East and West. The street lights were winking merrily and brougham and limousine passed beneath it, moving rapidly northward. With the setting of the sun a chill had fallen on the wonderful day of Indian summer and people moved briskly on their homeward way. Markham buttoned his light overcoat across his chest and bent his steps in the direction of his apartment, when at the corner of the Avenue he found his way blocked by a solitary female person fashionable attire who for some reason was laughing gaily.
He stopped, awakened suddenly to the fact that the lady of his dreams was before him.
"O Monsieur Philidor!" she laughed. "Well met, upon my word! Have you waited for me long?"
"Olga!"
"The same—flushed with victory over the passing years, joyous, too, at the sight of you. I counted on finding you here."
"I'm delighted—but how—"
"I know your habits, my dear. You always loved to prowl. And there used to be a time, you know, when we prowled together."
He found himself glad to see her—so glad that he forgot how angry he was.
"Let's prowl then," he said, and turned his steps southward again.