CHAPTER XVII
A flood of light poured out from Le Breton's villa, from wide-open French windows on to a moonlit lawn. Around the house, palms drooped and bamboos whispered. The night was laden with the scent of roses and syringa, and about the fragrant shrubs fireflies glinted like showers of silver sparks.
In one of the apartments opening on the lawn Le Breton sat at dinner with Lucille, over a little round table, sparkling with crystal and gold, where pink-shaded electric lights glowed among banks of flowers.
It was a large room, lavishly furnished, with priceless rugs, and furniture that might have come out of some Paris museum. There were three Arab servants in attendance, deft-handed, silent men, well trained, and observant, who waited upon their master as if their lives held nothing but his wishes and desires.
Opposite to him Lucille sat, in a white satin gown that left none of her charms to the imagination, with the emerald necklace flashing against her dead-white skin.
She was talking in a soft, languid voice, sometimes witty, often suggestive, but never at a loss for a subject, as women do talk who are paid well to interest and amuse their masters.
Le Breton did not look either particularly interested or amused. In fact, he looked bored and indifferent, answering her in monosyllables, as if her perpetual chatter interrupted some pleasant reverie of his own.
As he sat, intent on his own thoughts, one of the servants came to his side. Stooping, he said in a deferential voice in Arabic:
"There is the English lady your Highness deigned to breakfast with in the orange groves of Telde."
Le Breton started. He glanced round, his gaze following the Arab's to one of the wide French windows opening on the lawn.