We had several dances, and afterwards I took her down to supper. Then we had a couple of fox-trots, and I conducted her out to the car that was awaiting her and bowing, watched her drive off, alone.
But while doing so, there came along the pavement, out of the shadow, the short, ugly figure of the old Greek, Vassos, with his coat collar turned up, evidently passing without noticing me.
A few days later when in the evening I was chatting with Mayhew at the hotel, he said:
“What have you been up to, Hargreave? Look here! This letter was left upon me, with a note, asking me to give it to you in secret. Looks like a woman’s hand! Mind what you’re about in this place, old chap. There are some nasty pitfalls, you know!”
With a bachelor’s curiosity he was eager to know who was my fair correspondent. But I refused to satisfy him.
Suffice it to say that that same night I went alone to a house on the outskirts of Sofia, and there met, at her urgent request, Marie Balesco. After apologizing for thus approaching me and throwing all the convenances to the wind, she seemed to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning the reasons that had brought me to Bulgaria.
Like most women of to-day, she smoked, and offered me her cigarette-case. I took one—a delicious one it was, but rather strong—so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me. Before I could fight against it, the small, well-furnished room seemed to whirl about me, and I must have fallen unconscious. Indeed, I knew no more until, on awakening, I found myself back in my bed at the Hôtel de Bulgarie.
I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect what had occurred.
My hand seemed strangely painful. Raising it from the sheets, I looked at it.
Upon my right palm, branded as by a hot iron, was the sign of the dog’s pad!