He was gone upon the word.
Aramis? Why, that must be the Musketeer, of course—Bob Maillard! The name, with its implications, was a clever hit. But who was this brown monk, who seemed to know so much, who danced so divinely, whose French was like music? A vague suspicion was in the girl's mind, but she had no proof.
Half an hour after this Bob Maillard came to her, and with impatient words made a path through the circle which surrounded her. He caught her hand and bent over it with an affectation of gallantry which became him well, for in his costume he made a handsome figure.
"I know you now, Lucie!" he murmured. "I must see you at once—in the conservatory."
She was minded to refuse, but assented briefly. The words of the monk intrigued her; what had the man guessed? If Bob were indeed about to propose, she would this time cut off his hopes for good. But—was it that sort of a proposal?
As she managed to rid herself of her admirers, and descended to the conservatory, she was highly vexed with herself and the Franciscan, and so came to her appointment in no equable frame of mind. She found Maillard waiting in the old-fashioned conservatory; he had unmasked, and was puffing a cigarette. His heavy features and bold, shrewd eyes were fastened hungrily upon her as he came to meet her.
"By gad, Lucie, you're beautiful to-night!"
"Thanks, cousin Robert. Was it for that——?"
"No! See here, where did you get that collar of jewels?"
"Indeed!" The girl proudly drew herself up. "What business is that of yours, sir?"