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Updated: June 19, 2025
Is that correct, Mr. Raimonda?" "Essentially," confirmed the Caracunan. "When you are through trying to frighten me " began Carroll contemptuously. "Frighten you? I'm not so foolish as to waste time that way. I'm trying to warn you." "Are you quite done?" "I am not. On MY honor " He broke off as Carroll smiled. "Smile if you like, but believe what I'm telling you.
And finally, I have a warm regard for young Raimonda." "So have I," she returned maliciously. "Aren't you jealous?" He laughed. "Please be a little bit jealous. It would be so flattering." "Jealousy is another tradition in which I don't believe." "Then I can't flirt with you at all?" she sighed. "After taking all this long hot walk to see you!"
Perhaps they weren't from the queer and remote person at all. Very likely Mr. Raimonda had sent them; or Fitzhugh Carroll was adding secret attention to his open homage; or they might even be a further peace offering from the Hochwald secretary. That occasionally too festive diplomat had, indeed, made amends both profound and, evidently, sincere.
Soliciting the kind offices of both Sherwen and Raimonda, he had presented himself, under their escort, stiff and perspiring in his full official regalia, before Mr. Brewster; then before his daughter, whose solemnity, presently breaking down before his painfully rehearsed English, dissolved in fluent French, setting him at ease and making him her slave.
And the knight was inclined to attaint his lady for a certain cruelty in the matter; she was being something less than fair to the Unspeakable Perk. The searchlight of his surmise ranged farther. Raimonda! The young Caracunan was handsome, distinguished, manly, with a romantic charm that the American did not underestimate.
Several voices had answered her, but she paid little heed, for there had slipped over her shoulder a brown thin hand holding a cunningly woven closed basket of reedwork. A soft voice murmured something in Spanish. "What does he say?" asked the girl "For me?" "He thinks it must be for you," translated Raimonda, "from the description." "What description?"
Matters looked dark indeed, when there shrilled fiercely from above them the whirring peal of a silver whistle. Polly Brewster had remembered Raimonda. It seemed a futile signal, for as she ran to the railing and gazed across at the Club Amicitia, she saw all its windows and doors tight closed, as befits an aristocratic club that has no concern with the affairs of the rabble.
But there is no way of closing a patio from the top, and sounds can enter readily that way, when all other apertures are shut. Long and loud Miss Polly blew the signal on the silver hunting-whistle. In the club patio, Raimonda was chafing and wondering, and a score of his friends were drinking and waiting.
Heaving up his six-feet-one from the seat, he led the way to the two conversing men. Raimonda looked around and greeted the newcomers pleasantly. Cluff waved an explanatory hand between his charge and the bench. "Make you acquainted with Mr. Perkins," he said, neglecting to mention the name of the first party of the introduction.
Raimonda," he said courteously, "I give YOU my word that there will be no trouble between Herr Von Plaanden and myself, of my seeking, until Mr. and Miss Brewster are safely out of the country." "That's enough," said Cluff heartily. "The rest of us can take care of ourselves." "Meantime," said Raimonda, "I think the whole matter can be arranged.
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