I called Simes, and when I showed him the Madonna he stood glaring at it as one terrified.
“I don’t like that lady, sir,” he exclaimed, glancing at me.
“Why not?”
“Well, sir, pardon me for saying so, but I believe she can work the evil of the very Devil himself.”
That was exactly my own opinion; therefore I preserved silence.
As lover of a woman possessed of a mysterious influence, the like of which I had never before heard, my position was certainly an unique one. In the days which followed I tried to argue with myself that I did not love her; to convince myself that what she had alleged was true, namely, that I admired but did not love her. Yet all was in vain. I was fascinated by her large blue eyes, which looked out upon me with that calm, childlike innocence, and remaining beneath their spell, believed that I loved her.
The mystery with which she had surrounded herself was remarkable. Her refusal to allow me to call upon her, or even to write, was strange, yet her excuse that her aunt would be annoyed was plausible enough.
Compelled, therefore, to await her visit, I remained from day to day anxious to meet her because I loved her.
On entering the club one afternoon I found Roddy alone in the smoking-room, writing a letter.
“Well!” he cried, merrily, gripping my hand. “How goes it—and how’s your little mystery going on?”