The Broken Thread

by William Le Queux

such a place as Cairo.

  Raife sat and contemplated the mysterious view which confronted him. Itwas dark, but it was early, and the lights of the crowded cafesflickered below in a serried row of all that counted for speculation.There, in every garb, every conceivable costume, was a mixture ofnationalities from every corner of the globe Americans, Europeans,Egyptians, Turks, Arabs, Negroes, and the unfathomable Indians of theremote East. Raife thought of his first experience of the Americans,and it was a pleasing one. Hilda Muirhead was a novel type to him; for,in spite of the fact that fortune had been kind to him in the matter ofwealth and family and inheritance, his experience was limited. Astrange vein of adventure was his. He was descended from theReymingtounes, who, in the days of Elizabeth, helped to found theBritish Empire, and saved our diminutive islands from invasion andconquest by the all-powerful Spaniard of the period. His mind did nottravel in this direction. He was an English aristocrat, and possessedall the endowments of a lavish fortune. At the moment, he was a veryordinary, human young man. He thought he was a woman-hater. HildaMuirhead was to him an interesting specimen. At least, he flatteredhimself that was his view of the matter.

  Hilda's opinion of Raife is rather hard to determine. She was bred, or,as they still sometimes say in the United States, "reared" inCincinnati, which is on the border-line of south, and hers was anaristocratic lineage, dating, as far as that country is concerned, tothe old colonial days when the present United States were peopled almostentirely by British. The British who fought against British before theDeclaration of Independence, were, in a large number of instances,aristocrats. Hilda Muirhead was descended from such "stock."

  Raife now gazed at the wonderful grouping of minarets and mosques whichwere silhouetted against the sparkling sky of deepest transparent blue.Cairo is not a noisy city at night-time, and from his wickered chaireverything was seductively calm. This calm was suddenly made morepleasing by the strains of music. It was soft, restrained music, and ahuman voice predominated. "The Rosary" should, preferably, be sung by asubdued contralto voice to a low-pitched accompaniment. This was thesong that completed the breaking of a responsive string in Raife'sheart. Hilda Muirhead was singing to her father, but the song floatedupwards and through the still, pure night air, reached him. Could it bean accident or was it design? No one shall ever know. It happened.The conquest, for a time, was complete, and Raife felt and knew thatonly one woman could have sung that song, that night, in that way.

  The song was finished. No ragtime melody followed--nothing. Theexquisite completeness of the situation and the incident left Raife verydoubtful as to whether he really was a woman-hater.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

  A SHADOW ON RAIFE'S COURTSHIP.

  Under the pleasant conditions of Raife's life at Shepheard's Hotel, hisdagger wound rapidly healed, and he was again able to resume an activelife. Hilda Muirhead was trained to that freedom of action whichbelongs to the American bred. The excessive chaperonage which iscustomary in Europe does not belong to the United States. Mr Muirheadwas an indulgent father, and he, feeling safe as to Raife's credentials,was not in the mood to spoil the sport of young people. He rememberedthe days of his own courting on the beautiful countryside outside thehigh cliffs which overshadow the city of Cincinnati. Raife did not evennow realise that he was courting. He was perfectly satisfied that hewas merely having a good time and amusing himself. He and Hilda madeexcursions together. They visited bazaars and purchased all sorts oftrifles, some of which were cheap and some were not, for an Americangirl has expensive tastes.

  Heluan is about half an hour's train ride from Cairo, and here, sittingin the shade outside the hotel, Raife and Hilda for the first timedisclosed to themselves that their attraction for one another was notentirely platonic. The pretty little town pitched in the desert wassingularly quiet. They had talked of many things and their conversationwas rarely flippant, and they both possessed the faculty of enjoyingsilence when there was nothing of importance to say. In this remotelittle town, the silent spirit of the vast desert encouraged this mood.

  After some minutes of such contemplation Hilda remarked to him "Raife,tell me what is a woman-hater?" She had accepted his invitation to callhim "just Raife" right from the time when that invitation was extended.

  Raife started, and his bronzed cheeks suffused with a scarlet tinge.Had she heard him talking to himself that night on the balcony? Was shethe woman with the white shawl whom he caught a glimpse of on thebalcony beneath? These thoughts crowded on him as he stammered anevasive reply. "I don't know. Why do you ask?"

  Hilda, with characteristic candour, said: "I overheard some man talkingone night and he said, `I am a woman-hater.'"

  Their conversations on many subjects had been singularly open and free,and Raife now felt that he must disclose some of his career, so with aresponsive candour he said: "Hilda, it was I whom you must have heardthat night. I felt that I hated a woman, and I had every reason to doso. I had fancied that I loved her, and she, with an abominable olduncle, was conspiring to ruin me. Yes. I was a woman-hater, and I cameout here and started on my big-game expedition to get away from women."

  Hilda's face wore a puzzled and pained expression, and for some time shemade no reply. Then she spoke tremulously. "Raife, I am so sorry. Tothink I have been in your way all this time, and I thought that we hadbeen such good friends."

  He stopped her abruptly. "Hilda! Hilda! don't talk like that. Thewoman I hated is a wicked, harmful woman. You are the embodiment of allthat is pure and beautiful in womanhood. Your sweet influence hassoftened my bitterness and restored my mind to its normal state!"

  Then, archly, Hilda said: "Then I need not run away?"

  Impetuously he exclaimed, striking the table with the palm of his hand:"Run away! If you do I shall follow you. Follow you? Yes, to the endof the world, for Hilda you have made me love you."

  "Hush! don't talk like that, Raife. In America boys and girls, men andwomen, can be friends--just friends."

  In spite of these brave words, her breast was heaving and her pulsesthrobbed. "Let us go back now," she added. "This has troubled me and Imust think."

  Mr Muirhead was waiting for them when they arrived at Shepherd's Hotel,and greeted them with his customary cordiality. As they ascended thestairway together he said: "Remington, I want you to dine with usto-night. Don't refuse. I have arranged for a special American dish,which I am going to prepare myself."

  "Oh! What is that? If it's as good as the cocktails you make, I can'trefuse," said Raife, laughingly.

  "It's better, much better, my boy. It's `lobster newburgh,' and, if youdon't like it I shall count you an enemy of my country."

  "My dear Mr Muirhead, I could not be an enemy of the country thatproduced your genial self and your gracious daughter," was Raife'sflattering retort.

  The dinner that night was served with rather more ceremony than usual,and Mr Muirhead's dish was a great success. Hilda did not participateso much as usual in the conversation, and her father rallied her on herquietude. At the close of dinner an attendant brought a telegram forMr Muirhead. He opened it and having read it exclaimed, "Pshaw! that'sa nuisance. Remington, will you excuse me? This calls for attention.I must cable to the bank. I don't suppose I shall be more than half anhour. Hilda will entertain you."

  When her father had gone, and they were alone, they sat, as was theirwont, for some time in silence. Hilda poured out some coffee and handedit to Raife. In doing so she touched his hand. The momentary contactthrilled him and he broke the silence. "Hilda, perhaps I was wrong inspeaking as I did this afternoon. Yet it is true. Let me tell you moreof the buried incident, and of another tragedy in my life."

  Raife told of his father's murder and those fateful dying words whichwarned his son to beware. He told some portion of his association withthe mysterious Gilda Tempest. Then he added: "There must be a kink inmy own character somewhere, which I have inherited from some of myfilibustering an
cestors. Or perhaps there is gipsy blood in me. Thingsseem to happen differently to me--than to other men. But everythingappears to be in my favour. I am rich, and I am the head of adistinguished family. Yet I have a wandering spirit, and anuncontrollable desire for the unconventional. I am rudderless andcannot steer a straight course."

  He had looked straight at the carpet during his narration, and his toneshad been agitated. He paused and, raising his head, met her eyes gazingat him with a pained, sympathetic look. When their eyes met neitherflinched, nor did they speak for some seconds.

  At length Hilda placed her hand on his arm saying, "Raife, I'm so sorry.How I wish I could help you."

  Raife sprang to his feet and, holding her