"Again I pray mademoiselle to pardon me, but only a moment past I heard
the song--the song that might be the sigh of all the daughters of
Italy. Ah, Mademoiselle, it is wonderful! But here in this so fresh
country, this youthful, boisterous, too prosperous country, that song
is like--like--like Arabian spices in a kitchen. Is it not so?"

Miss Redmond was moving up the steps toward the entrance, hesitating
between the desire to snub her interlocutor and to avoid the appearance
of fright. The man, meanwhile, moved easily beside her, courteously
distant, discourteously insistent in his prattle. But the motor-car
was now not far away.

The stranger looked appealingly at her, seemingly sure of a humorous
answering look to his pleasantry. It was not wholly denied. She
yielded to a touch of amusement with a cool smile, and hastened her
steps. The man kept pace without effort. Luckily, the car stood only
a few feet away, with Renaud, or rather Hand, at the curb, holding open
the door. A vague bow and a lifting of the hat, and apparently the
stranger went the other way. She felt a foolish relief, and at the
same instant noted with surprise that the cover of her car had been
raised.

"Why did you raise the top?"

"It appeared to me, Mademoiselle, that it was likely to rain."

"Put it down again. It will not rain," Miss Redmond was saying, when,
from sidelong eyes, she saw that the stranger had not turned in the
other direction, after all, but was almost in her tracks, as though he
were stalking game. With foot on the step she said sharply, but in a