From her pretty lips rang out a ripple of merry laughter, while over her face spread a saucy look.
“I freely admit it, M’sieur Falconer,” she responded. “But I had no idea we should meet here. Or I should not have come—I confess to you.”
“Ah! Mademoiselle, beauty such as yours cannot be concealed,” said the young man laughing.
“Why do you flatter me?—You?”
“Surely I may be permitted to admire you—even though I am aware of the truth—of who and what you really are!”
“But—but you will not give me away to Hugh—will you, M’sieur Geoffrey?” she asked quickly, her face instantly pale in alarm. “I—I love him. I swear I do!”
“If you play the straight game with him, Gabrielle, I will remain silent,” Falconer promised. “After we had met in Paris three years ago, I learnt the truth about you, mademoiselle,” he added; “and I confess that the revelation was an extremely unpleasant one. I believed in you, but I found that you were playing a very crooked game.”
As the words left his lips, Hugh Carew returned. The curtain had rung up, therefore Geoffrey bowed to mademoiselle, and at once rejoined Sylvia.
The remainder of the play did not interest him. As he sat by Sylvia’s side a flood of bitter memories overtook him—how he had first been introduced to Gabrielle while taking a morning apératif at the Pré Catalan, in Paris; of his friendship with her, and of the subsequent discovery that, instead of being what she had represented herself to be, she was actually the decoy of thieves! In Paris he had known her as Gabrielle Valeri, a native of Palermo, in Sicily. Now that she was in London, the friend of Hugh Carew, her name had become Juvanon, and she was French.
What deep game was being played?