And then he remembered the anonymous note he had received at Long Branch two years before.
"That was true," he said to himself. "Bonnibel as good as admitted it, for she would not show me the inscription in the ring, and she refused to give up wearing it. But she said that the giver was dead. Had she had two lovers, then, innocent and youthful as she was? Perhaps she deceived me. Women are not to be trusted, they say. I will obey the warning of my unknown friend and watch."
He waited impatiently for the summons to supper, which would be the signal for laying aside the masks.
"It must be true," he said to himself, "for that would explain why he was so discourteous about painting her portrait. He did not wish to be thrown into familiar contact with her again. Perhaps she had used him cruelly. It may be that she threw him over because he was poor and unknown, then, and accepted me only for the sake of my wealth."
He was nearly maddened by these tumultuous thoughts. He was almost on the point of going to her at once and overwhelming her with the accusation of her wrong-doing.
At that moment the signal came and his guests unmasked.
He saw Monsieur Favart coming toward him accompanied by a handsome distinguished-looking young man in the costume of a knight. He had never met the great Roman artist, yet he felt a quick intuition that this must be the man. The premonition was verified for Monsieur Favart paused before him and said:
"Colonel Carlyle, it gives me pleasure to present my artist friend, Mr. Dane."
The two gentlemen bowed to each other, but for a moment Colonel Carlyle could not speak. When he did his voice was hoarse and strained, and his words of welcome were so few that Monsieur Favart looked at him in surprise. What had become of the old colonel's urbanity and courtliness?