Raife and Gilda both started at this extraordinary sally. Neither knew that the doctor was aware of the gift. The slight gold chain to which the talisman was attached was barely visible, whilst the figure of Isis was entirely screened from view. It heaved on Gilda’s palpitating breast, behind the bodice of her charming and dainty morning gown. Without apparently heeding the embarrassment of the young couple, he proceeded:
“There is a delightful mysticism about Egyptian mythology that charms me. Let me see, Isis was a goddess, wasn’t she? To be sure she was a goddess, and the record of her does not always make pleasant reading.”
Raife gazed steadfastly at this mysterious man, and marvelled at the meaning of his cryptic utterances, which came from him graciously, and with a smile that was bland, until the swivel eye destroyed the illusion.
Gilda was trained to the startling nature of her uncle’s methods, and collected her senses rapidly, remarking: “Yes, wasn’t it kind of Raife—Sir Raife I mean, to give it to me. I told him you would be pleased.”
Raife was more mystified than ever. She had not said anything of the kind to him. And what was the meaning of that lapse—the omission of the title in speaking before her uncle? Truly, the depths of these personalities were unfathomable. In spite of it all he had sworn to trust Gilda and remain her friend. He was a Reymingtoune and he would keep his word. Apart from that, he loved her, and love remains as blind to-day as when Cupid became fully fledged and wore wings.
The revolutions of an excited mentality are rapid, and a thought flashed through Sir Raife Remington’s mind. Who was that mysterious-looking, slouch-hatted, and cloaked Apache type of person, who bade him wait for Gilda when she was late for her appointment? Was he a secret agent of Doctor Malsano? What would be the outcome of this hotbed of mystery? It mattered not. Only one thing mattered. He loved this frail, beautiful young girl. He had sworn to trust her and to be her friend.