What could it all mean? What, indeed?
THE WHITE CAVALIER
While Hugh Henfrey was travelling along that winding
road over high headlands and down steep gradients
to the sea which stretched the whole length of the
Italian Riviera, Dorise Ranscomb in a white silk domino
and black velvet mask was pretending to enjoy herself
amid the mad gaiety at the Casino in Nice.
The great bal blanc is always one of the most
important events of the Nice season, and everyone
of note wintering on the Riviera was there, yet all
carefully masked, both men and women.
“I wonder what prevented Hugh from coming with
us, mother?” the girl remarked as she sat with
Lady Ranscomb watching the merriment and the throwing
of serpentines and confetti.
“I don’t know. He certainly ought
to have let me know, and not have kept me waiting
nearly half an hour, as he did,” her mother snapped.
The girl did not reply. The truth was that while
her mother and the Count had been waiting for Hugh’s
appearance, she had gone to the telephone and inquired
for Mr. Henfrey. Walter Brock had spoken to her.
“I’m awfully sorry, Miss Ranscomb,”
he had replied. “But I don’t know
where Hugh can be. I’ve just been up to
his room, but his fancy dress is there, flung down
as though he had suddenly discarded it and gone out.
Nobody noticed him leave. The page at the door
is certain that he did not go out. So he must
have left by the staff entrance.”
“That’s very curious, isn’t it?”
Dorise remarked.
“Very. I can’t understand it.”
“But he promised to go with us to the ball at
Nice to-night!”
“Well, Miss Ranscomb, all I can think is that
something—something very important must
have detained him somewhere.”
Walter knew that his friend was suspected by the police,
but dared not tell her the truth. Hugh’s
disappearance had caused him considerable anxiety
because, for aught he knew, he might already be arrested.
So Dorise, much perplexed, but resolving not to say
to her mother that she had telephoned to the Palmiers,
rejoined the Count in the hotel lounge, where they
waited a further ten minutes. Then they entered
the car and drove along to Nice.
There are few merrier gatherings in all Europe than
the bal blanc. The Municipal Casino, at
all times the center of revelry, of mild gambling,
smart dresses and gay suppers, is on that night an
amazing spectacle of black and white. The carnival
colours—the two shades of colour chosen
yearly by the International Fetes Committee—are
abandoned, and only white is worn.
