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Updated: June 19, 2025
"Why! because I love Dorise Ranscomb. But Louise interests me, and I'm worried on her account because of that infernal fellow Charles Benton. Louise poses as his adopted daughter. Benton is a bachelor of forty-five, and, according to his story, he adopted Louise when she was a child and put her to school. Her parentage is a mystery. After leaving school she at first went to live with a Mrs.
Brock had accepted the invitation of a bald-headed London stock-broker he knew to motor over to lunch and tennis at the Beau Site, at Cannes, while Dorise and her mother had gone with some people to lunch at the Reserve at Beaulieu, one of the best and yet least pretentious restaurants in all Europe, only equalled perhaps by Capsa's, in Bucharest. "Ah! If she would only tell!"
He gave an evasive reply, whereupon Dorise, taking his hand in hers, said: "What is your objection to going out with us to-night, Hugh? Do tell me. If you don't wish me to go, I'll make an excuse to mother and she can take the Count." "I have not the slightest objection," he declared at once. "Go, dearest only leave me out of it. The bal blanc is always good fun."
The tall, good-looking man whom Dorise knew as the White Cavalier was one of four other men who posed in his stead when occasion arose. Scotland Yard, the Surete in Paris, the Pubblica Sicurezza in Rome, and the Detective Department of the New York police knew, quite naturally, of the existence of the elusive Sparrow, but none of them had been able to trace him. Why?
In that bald official narrative which is docketed under the heading "No. 23489/263 Henfrey" there is no mention of the love affair between Dorise Ranscomb and Hugh Henfrey of Woodthorpe.
Louise was good-looking, it was true, but could he sacrifice his happiness; could he ever cut himself adrift from Dorise for mercenary motives in order to get back what was surely by right his inheritance?
As Dorise walked up Bond Street, smartly dressed, next afternoon, on her way to her dressmaker's, she was followed by a well-dressed young girl in black, dark-eyed, with well-cut, refined features, and apparently a lady. From Piccadilly the stranger had followed Dorise unseen, until at the corner of Maddox Street she overtook her, and smiling, uttered her name. "Yes," responded Doris in surprise.
I don't like the look of affairs at the present moment. Young Henfrey is head over ears in love with that girl Dorise Ranscomb, and " "Bah! It's only a flirtation, my dear Charles," laughed the woman. "When just a little pressure is put upon the boy, and a sly hint to Lady Ranscomb, then the affair will soon be off, and he'll fall into Louise's arms. She's really very fond of him."
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.
"But when can I see him?" asked Dorise eagerly. "Soon. But you must be discreet and you must ask no questions. Just place yourself in my hands that is, if you can trust me." "I do, even though I am ignorant of your name." "It is best that you remain in ignorance," was his reply. "Otherwise perhaps you would hesitate to trust me." "Why?"
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