"She left rather hurriedly," he said; "and, as far as I could gather, she was going back to England."
"Do you know her address there?" Le Breton asked.
"No, I don't," the manager said regretfully. "Miss Langham did not talk much about herself."
This was all Le Breton was able to learn. But he knew one thing—that the girl his fierce heart hungered for had escaped him.
That morning his black horse had a hard time, for Le Breton rode like a madman in a vain endeavour to get away from the whirl of wild love and thwarted hopes that raged within him—the Sultan Casim Ammeh for the first time deprived of the woman he wanted; wanted as he had never wanted any other.
He went to the rose-wreathed summer-house where Pansy had been pleased to linger with him; to the orange groves at Telde where they had breakfasted together. Night found him in the hotel gardens, near the fountain where they had met and plighted their troth.
His hands clenched at the thought of all she had promised there. Phantom-like, she haunted him. Her ghost was in his arms, kissing and teasing him, a recollection that was torture. The one real love of his life had proved but Dead Sea fruit.
He would have given his kingdom, all his riches, to have Pansy back in his arms as he had had her that night, unresisting, watching him with eyes full of love, wanting him as much as he had wanted her. The one woman who had ever scorned him!