The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [5701]
It was an accomplice of this nameless horror called "The Scorpion" with whom at six o'clock he had a tryst, whom he was protecting from justice, by the suppression of whose messages to himself he was adding difficulties to the already difficult task of the authorities!
Up and down he paced, restlessly, every now and again glancing at a clock upon the mantelpiece. His behavior he told himself was contemptible.
Yet, at a quarter to six, he went out--and seeing a little cluster of daisies growing amongst the grass bordering the path, he plucked one and set it in his button-hole!
A few minutes before the hour he entered the station and glanced sharply around at the many groups scattered about in the neighbourhood of the bookstall. There was no sign of Mlle. Dorian. He walked around the booking office without seeing her and glanced into the waiting-room. Then, looking up at the station clock, he saw that the hour had come, and as he stood there staring upward he felt a timid touch upon his shoulder.
He turned--and she was standing by his side!
She was Parisian from head to foot, simply but perfectly gowned. A veil hung from her hat and half concealed her face, but could not hide her wonderful eyes nor disguise the delightful curves of her red lips. Stuart automatically raised his hat, and even as he did so wondered what she should have said and done had she suddenly found Gaston Max standing at his elbow! He laughed shortly.
"You are angry with me," said Mlle. Dorian, and Stuart thought that her quaint accent was adorable. "Or are you angry with yourself for seeing me?"
"I am angry with myself," he replied, "for being so weak."
"Is it so weak," she said, rather tremulously, "not to judge a woman by what she seems to be and not to condemn her before you hear what she has to say? If that is weak, I am glad; I think it is how a man should be."
Her voice and her eyes completed the spell, and Stuart resigned himself without another struggle to this insane infatuation.
"We cannot very well talk here," he said. "Suppose we go into the hotel and have late tea, Mlle. Dorian."
"Yes. Very well. But please do not call me that. It is not my name."
Stuart was on the point of saying, "Zara el-Khala then," but checked himself in the nick of time. He might hold communication with the enemy, but at least he would give away no information.
"I am called Miska," she added. "Will you please call me Miska?"
"Of course, if you wish," said Stuart, looking down at her as she walked by his side and wondering what he would do when he had to stand up in Court, look at Miska in the felon's dock and speak words which would help to condemn her--perhaps to death, at least to penal servitude! He shuddered.
"Have I said something that displeases you?" she asked, resting a white-gloved hand on his arm. "I am sorry."
"No, no," he assured her. "But I was thinking--I cannot help thinking ..."
"How wicked I am?" she whispered.
"How lovely you are!" he said hotly, "and how maddening it is to remember that you are an accomplice of criminals!"
"Oh," she said, and removed her hand, but not before he had felt how it trembled. They were about to enter the tea-room when she added: "Please don't say that until I have told you why I do what I do."
Obeying a sudden impulse, he took her hand and drew it close under his arm.
"No," he said; "I won't. I was a brute, Miska. Miska means 'musk', surely?"
"Yes." She glanced up at him timidly. "Do you think it a pretty name?"
"Very," he said, laughing.
Underlying the Western veneer was the fascinating naivete of the Eastern woman, and Miska had all the suave grace, too, which belongs to the women of the Orient, so that many admiring glances followed her charming figure as she crossed the room to a vacant table.
"Now," said Stuart, when he had given an order to the waiter, "what do you want to tell me? Whatever it may be, I am all anxiety to hear it. I promise