A pretty woman who is not wholly obsessed by her personal
charms, learns more of the ways of mankind than it
is vouchsafed to her plainer sister ever to know;
and in the crooked eyes of Gianapolis, Helen Cumberly
read a world of unuttered things, and drew her own
conclusions. These several conclusions dictated
a single course; avoidance of Gianapolis in future.
Fortunately, Helen Cumberly’s self-chosen path
in life had taught her how to handle the nascent and
undesirable lover. She chatted upon the subject
of art, and fenced adroitly whenever the Greek sought
to introduce the slightest personal element into the
conversation. Nevertheless, she was relieved
when at last she found herself in the familiar Square
with her foot upon the steps of Palace Mansions.
“Good night, Mr. Gianapolis!” she said,
and frankly offered her hand.
The Greek raised it to his lips with exaggerated courtesy,
and retained it, looking into her eyes in his crooked
fashion.
“We both move in the world of art and letters;
may I hope that this meeting will not be our last?”
“I am always wandering about between Fleet Street
and Soho,” laughed Helen. “It is
quite certain we shall run into each other again before
long. Good night, and thank you so much!”
She darted into the hallway, and ran lightly up the
stairs. Opening the flat door with her key, she
entered and closed it behind her, sighing with relief
to be free of the over-attentive Greek. Some impulse
prompted her to enter her own room, and, without turning
up the light, to peer down into the Square.
Gianapolis was descending the steps. On the pavement
he stood and looked up at the windows, lingeringly;
then he turned and walked away.
Helen Cumberly stifled an exclamation.
As the Greek gained the corner of the Square and was
lost from view, a lithe figure—kin of the
shadows which had masked it—became detached
from the other shadows beneath the trees of the central
garden and stood, a vague silhouette seemingly looking
up at her window as Gianapolis had looked.
Helen leaned her hands upon the ledge and peered intently
down. The figure was a vague blur in the darkness,
but it was moving away along by the rails... following
Gianapolis. No clear glimpse she had of it, for
bat-like, it avoided the light, this sinister shape—and
was gone.
MUSK AND ROSES
It is time to rejoin M. Gaston Max in the catacombs
of Ho-Pin. Having prepared himself for drugged
repose in the small but luxurious apartment to which
he had been conducted by the Chinaman, he awaited with
interest the next development. This took the
form of the arrival of an Egyptian attendant, white-robed,
red-slippered, and wearing the inevitable tarboosh.
Upon the brass tray which he carried were arranged
the necessities of the opium smoker. Placing
the tray upon a little table beside the bed, he extracted
from the lacquered box a piece of gummy substance
upon the end of a long needle. This he twisted
around, skilfully, in the lamp flame until it acquired
a blue spirituous flame of its own. He dropped
it into the bowl of the carven pipe and silently placed
the pipe in M. Max’s hand.
