“He requested me not to give his name, as he is anxious to see if you will recognize him.”
The lady’s curiosity was aroused.
“Very well, I will see him,” she said. “You may bring him up here at once; I am quite ready for the interview.”
The stranger, apparently troubled with no doubt that he would be received, had crept noiselessly up the stairs and was already almost at the door of the boudoir. Espy had only to turn and give him a nod, and instantly he stepped forward and stood before Madame Le Conte—a tall, handsome, middle-aged man.
But he started with amazement as his eye fell upon her face and figure.
“Do I—do I see before me my old acquaintance, Nannette Gramont?”
“That was my maiden name,” she said, gazing earnestly into his face as she half rose and held out her left hand, “but I am greatly altered, as I think you must be also, for your looks are utterly strange to me.”
“Rolfe Heywood,” he said, taking the offered hand while still keenly scanning her face.
“Rolfe Heywood! is it possible? can it be? Ah, yes, I know you now; I remember your smile. But—oh, can you tell me anything of my sister—my lost Ethel—my darling Pansy?”
The words came pantingly, sobbingly, while great tears chased each other down the bloated, swarthy cheeks.