He decided to go to Vulning’s villa; there could be no harm in that. He might gain some information about his parents. He did not like Vulning any the better now that he knew he was a cousin. Still there was no reason they should not be decently civil to one another.
He was glad to learn that his father had been a well-known artist. That accounted for his own modest talent and his joy in playing with colours. His mother ... his poor mother ... perhaps she was one of the Fontanas of Monaco, the famous Fontanas. He must go over to Menton and look up the register. The letter suggested to him new and engrossing lines of thought. He awaited the evening with impatience.
At ten o’clock the carmine car was waiting, breathing softly, with great glowing eyes. The chauffeur touched his hat and Hugh leapt into the seat beside him. How he loved a car! This was a Hispana Suiza and the one-eyed chauffeur drove like a demon. He climbed the steep serpentine hill, nursing his motor with infinite delicacy. The engine roared triumphantly; the lights of the town fell away; the world widened gloriously. They rose with a steady, panting urge, toward the mountains and the stars.
Soon they were well in the belt of orange groves and the road became more difficult to follow. The chauffeur was driving at a slow pace, the way twisting and turning. Hugh could hardly believe that any one lived in such a remote place until he remembered that Vulning’s villa was the highest on the hillside. It was ideal for any one who loved seclusion; the view must be superb. Presently lights swooped towards them, and the wheels of the car ground in the gravel. They had arrived.
There is always something mysterious about the approach to a lonely house at night. The sense of mystery at Vulning’s villa was heightened by the great garden that encircled it. The vast velvety blackness, with its suggestions of pines and cyprus, and its rich sullen silence was almost aggressive. Against the mountain the tall house loomed faintly. It was terraced on three sides, with a flight of steps leading up to the front entrance.
As he mounted them the door opened and a man awaited him. Hugh was surprised to see it was Bob Bender. Bob smiled in his sly, deprecating way.
“How are you, sir? Mr. Vulning’s expecting you. He’s in the library. Come this way.”
He led Hugh down a long unlighted hall and halted before a door. The air was stale and heavy.
Then the door was opened and Hugh found himself in a large sombre room, panelled in dark wood; over what appeared to be a bay window hung heavy crimson curtains. The window was evidently open, as the curtains trembled slightly. By an oak table in the middle of the room stood Vulning with a curious smile on his face.
As the two men faced one another the resemblance between them was more striking than ever. Both were tall and slim and straight. Both had the severely regular features of the type that used to be known as the English governing class. Their hair was of the same light chestnut and brushed smoothly back. But while Hugh’s eyes were black, those of Vulning were blue; while Hugh’s face was frank and boyish, that of Vulning was cynical and blasé. There appeared to be a dozen years of difference in their ages.