Chapter Twenty Three.
A Ruler of Europe.
“Well?” Gemma exclaimed, quickly recovering herself, and looking keenly into the dark face of the newcomer.
“Well?” he said, imitating with a touch of sarcasm the tone in which she had spoken, at the same time taking a cigarette from his case and lighting it with a vesta from the china stand upon the table.
“What does this mean?” she inquired in Italian, regarding him with a look which clearly showed his presence was unwelcome.
“Finish your coffee and come out with me. I must speak with you. Here it’s too risky. We might be overheard. St. James’s Park is near, and we can talk there without interruption,” he said. Evidently a gentleman, aged about fifty-five, with long iron-grey side-whiskers and hair slightly blanched. His eyes were intelligent and penetrating, his forehead broad and open, his chin heavy and decisive, and he was undoubtedly a man of stern will and wide achievements. He spoke polished Italian, and his manner was perfect.
Gemma kept her eyes fixed upon him, fascinated by fear. Her gloved hand trembled perceptibly as she raised her cup to her lips.
“You had no idea that you would meet me—eh?” he laughed, speaking in an undertone. “Well, drink your coffee, and let us take a cab to the Park.” He flung down sixpence to the waiter, and they went out together. She walked mechanically into the street, dumbfounded, stupefied.
By his side she staggered for a few paces, then halting said, in a sudden tone of anger—
“Leave me! I refuse to accompany you.”