Then had come the war. At
first it had covered the duke with laurels. But a certain dark day had
brought a cable from the duchess, telling of his disappearance and the
suspicion that surrounded it; and Esme, despite her aunt's entreaties,
had promptly taken passage on the next ship that sailed.
"I had meant to go within a month, as a Red Cross nurse," she told me.
"I had my passport, and I had taken a course. Well, I came on to New
York and spent the night there. Aunt Alice telegraphed to her lawyer,
the dearest, primmest old fellow, and he dined with me, protesting all
the time against my sailing. I saw you in the St. Ives restaurant. Did
you see us?"
"Let me think." I pretended to rack my brains. "I believe I do recall
something, in a hazy sort of way. You had on a rose-colored gown that
was distinctly wonderful, and when we tracked the German to the door of
your room, you were wearing an evening coat, bright blue. But the main
thing was your hair!" Here I became lyric. "An oak-leaf in the sunlight,
Miss Falconer! Threads of gold!"
But she ignored me, very properly, and shifted the scene from hotel
to steamer, where Franz von Blenheim, in the guise of Van Blarcom, had
given her a fright.
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