He spoke no word, but laid a hand on
David's arm and led him toward it, while Bateese and Joe Clamart
remained standing at the entrance to the hall. David's feet trod
in thick rugs of fur; he saw the dim luster of polished birch and
cedar in the walls, and over his head the ceiling was rich and
matched, as in the bateau cabin. They drew nearer to the music and
came to a closed door. This Black Roger opened very quietly, as if
anxious not to disturb the one who was playing.
They entered, and David held his breath. It was a great room he
stood in, thirty feet or more from end to end, and scarcely less
in width--a room brilliant with light, sumptuous in its comfort,
sweet with the perfume of wild-flowers, and with a great black
fireplace at the end of it, from over which there stared at him
the glass eyes of a monster moose. Then he saw the figure at the
piano, and something rose up quickly and choked him when his eyes
told him it was not Marie-Anne. It was a slim, beautiful figure in
a soft and shimmering white gown, and its head was glowing gold in
the lamplight.
Roger Audemard spoke, "Carmin!"
The woman at the piano turned about, a little startled at the
unexpectedness of the voice, and then rose quickly to her feet--
and David Carrigan found himself looking into the eyes of Carmin
Fanchet!
Never had he seen her more beautiful than in this moment, like an
angel in her shimmering dress of white, her hair a radiant glory,
her eyes wide and glowing--and, as she looked at him, a smile
coming to her red lips.
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