Chapter Sixteen.
The Golden Hand.
When a few minutes later they rose Liane declared that she must return to lunch; therefore they walked together in the sun-glare along the Promenade, at that hour all but deserted, for the cosmopolitan crowd of persons who basked in the brilliant sunshine during the morning had now sought their hotels for déjeûner. Few words they uttered, so full of gloom and sadness were both their hearts. Liane had insisted that this must be their last meeting, but time after time he had declared that he would never allow her to marry Zertho, although he could make no suggestion whereby she could escape the cruel fate which sooner or later must overwhelm her.
They had strolled about half-way towards the villa in which she and the Captain were staying, when suddenly he halted opposite a short narrow lane, which opened from the Promenade into the thoroughfare running parallel—the old and narrow Rue de France. On either side were high garden walls, and half-way along, these walls, taking a sudden turn at right angles, opened wider; therefore the way was much narrower towards where they stood than at the opposite end.
“Let us go down here,” George suggested. “There is more shade in the street, and you can then reach your villa by the back entrance.”
“No,” she answered, glancing with repugnance at the narrow lane, and turning away quickly. He fancied she shuddered; but, on glancing at the clean little thoroughfare only about a hundred paces in length, he could detect nothing which could cause her repulsion, and at once reassured himself that he had been mistaken.
“But it is so terribly hot and dazzling along here,” he urged.
“You should carry a sun-umbrella,” she smiled. “But there, I suppose men don’t care to be seen with green ginghams.”
“But surely this glare upon the footway hurts your eyes,” he continued. “It is so much cooler in the Rue de France.”
“No,” she replied. And again he thought he detected a gesture of uneasiness as, turning from him, she walked on, her sunshade lowered to hide her face. Puzzled, he stepped forward and quickly caught her up. There was, he felt certain, some hidden reason why she declined to pass along that small unnamed lane. But he did not refer to the subject again, although after he had left her he pondered long and deeply upon her curious attitude, and in walking back to the town he turned into the narrow passage and passed through it to the Rue de France, whence he took the tram down to the Place Massena.