“Yes, miss.”
“Then give it to him—with this;” and she handed the girl a shilling.
When, however, she noticed me standing in the doorway she seemed just a trifle confused. In this message I scented something suspicious; but, affecting to take no notice, walked at her side down the corridor into the hall to await the others. She wore a toilette that night which bore the cut of a first-class couturier. It was a handsome heliotrope gown with a collar of seed pearls. After dining we danced together, and, in so doing, I glanced down at her white, heaving chest, for her corsage was a trifle lower than others she had hitherto worn. I found that for which my eyes were searching—a tiny dark mark low down, and only just visible above the lace edging of the gown—the tattoo-mark which I had discovered on that fateful day, the mark of the three hearts entwined.
What, I wondered, did that indelible device denote?
That it had some significance was certain. I had been waltzing with her for perhaps five minutes, when suddenly I withdrew my hand from her waist, and halting, reeled and almost fell.
“Why, Doctor,” she cried, “what’s the matter? How pale you are?”
“Nothing,” I gasped, endeavouring to reassure her. “A little faintness, that is all. I’ll go out into the night.” And, unnoticed by the others, I staggered out upon the broad, gravelled terrace which ran the whole length of the house.
She had walked beside me in alarm, and, when we were alone, suggested that she should obtain assistance.
“No,” I said; “I shall be better in a moment.”
“How do you feel?” she inquired, greatly concerned.