"God knows, boy! Everybody's mad to meet her, but nobody knows
who she is. But wait till you see her. Lady Dascot seems to be
acquainted with her, but you will see when they come to-morrow--
see for yourself. Gad, boy! . . . what did you say?"
"I did not speak."
"Thought you did. Have a whisky-and-soda?"
"No, thank you, sir--good night."
"Good night, boy!" cried the Colonel. "Good night. Don't forget
to be in to-morrow afternoon or you'll miss meeting the loveliest
woman in London, and the most brilliant."
"What is her name?"
"Eh? She calls herself Madame de Medici. She's a mystery, but
what a splendid creature!"
Rene Deacon walked slowly upstairs, entered his bedroom, and for
fully an hour sat in the darkness, thinking--thinking.
"Am I going mad?" he murmured. "Or is this witch driving all
London mad?"
He strove to recover something of the glamour which had mastered
him when in the presence of Madame de Medici, but failed. Yet he
knew that, once near her again, it would all return. His
reflections were bitter, and when at last wearily he undressed
and went to bed it was to toss restlessly far into the small
hours ere sleep came to soothe his troubled mind.
But his sleep was disturbed: a series of dreadfully realistic
dreams danced through his brain.
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