court-yard. Entering my room and closing the door after me, I
drew the miniature from my pocket and stood gazing at it for I know not
how long.

CHAPTER XII

LES ILES

I stood staring at the portrait, I say, with a kind of fascination that
astonished me, seeing that it had come to me in such a way. It was no
French face of my imagination, and as I looked it seemed to me that I
knew Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre. And yet I smile as I write this,
realizing full well that my strange and foreign surroundings and my
unforeseen adventure had much to do with my state of mind. The lady in
the miniature might have been eighteen, or thirty-five. Her features
were of the clearest cut, the nose the least trifle aquiline, and by a
blurred outline the painter had given to the black hair piled high upon
the head a suggestion of waviness. The eyebrows were straight, the brown
eyes looked at the world with an almost scornful sense of humor, and I
marked that there was determination in the chin. Here was a face that
could be infinitely haughty or infinitely tender, a mouth of witty--nay,
perhaps cutting--repartee of brevity and force. A lady who spoke
quickly, moved quickly, or reposed absolutely. A person who commanded by
nature and yet (dare I venture the thought?) was capable of a supreme
surrender. I was aroused from this odd revery by footsteps on the
gallery, and Nick burst into the room. Without pausing to look about
him, he flung himself lengthwise on the bed on top of the mosquito bar.

"A thousand curses on such a place," he cried; "it is full of rat holes
and rabbit warrens."

"Did you catch your man?" I asked innocently.

"Catch him!" said Nick, with a little excusable profanity; "he went in at
one end of such a warren and came out at another. I waited for him in
two streets until an officious person chanced along and threatened to
take me before the Alcalde. What the devil is that you have got in your
hand, Davy?" he demanded, raising his head.

"A miniature that took my fancy, and which I bought."

He rose from the bed, yawned, and taking it in his hand, held it to the
light. I watched him curiously.

"Lord," he said, "it is such a passion as I might have suspected of you,
Davy."

"There was nothing said about passion," I answered

"Then why the deuce did you buy it?" he said with some pertinence.

This staggered me.

"A man may fancy a thing, without indulging in a passion, I suppose," I
replied.