Hearts and Masks

"Some card-sharper?"

He nodded. "Then again, I lost a small fortune because of that

card,"--diffidently.

"Poker?"

"Yes. Why will a man try to fill a royal flush? The man next to me

drew the ten of hearts, the very card I needed. The sight of it always

unnerves me. I beg your pardon."

"Oh, that's all right," said I, wondering how many more lies he had up

his sleeve.

"And there's still another reason. I saw a man put six bullets into

the two central spots, and an hour later the seventh bullet snuffed the

candle of a friend of mine. I am from the West."

"I can sympathize with you," I returned. "After all that trouble, the

sight of the card must have given you a shock."

Then I stowed away the fatal card and took up my bundle and change. I

have in my own time tried to fill royal flushes, and the disappointment

still lingers with a bitter taste.

"The element of chance is the most fascinating thing there is," the

stranger from the West volunteered.

"So it is," I replied, suddenly recalling that I was soon to put my

trust in the hands of that very fickle goddess.

He nodded and returned to his revolvers, while I went out of the shop,

hailed a cab, and drove up-town to my apartments in Riverside. It was

eight o'clock by my watch. I leaned back against the cushions,

ruminating. There seemed to be something going on that night; the ten

of hearts was acquiring a mystifying, not to say sinister, aspect.

First it had alarmed the girl in Mouquin's, and now this stranger in

the curio-shop. I was confident that the latter had lied in regard to

his explanations. The card had startled him, but his reasons were

altogether of transparent thinness. A man never likes to confess that

he is unlucky at cards; there is a certain pride in lying about the

enormous stakes you have won and the wonderful draws you have made. I

frowned. It was not possible for me to figure out what his interest in

the card was. If he was a Westerner, his buying a pistol in a pawnshop

was at once disrobed of its mystery; but the inconsistent elegance of

his evening clothes doubled my suspicions. Bah! What was the use of

troubling myself with this stranger's affairs? He would never cross my

path again.

In reasonable time the cab drew up in front of my apartments. I

dressed, donned my Capuchin's robe and took a look at myself in the

pier-glass. Then I unwrapped the package and put on the mask. The

whole made a capital outfit, and I was vastly pleased with myself.

This was going to be such an adventure as one reads about in the

ancient numbers of Blackwood's. I slipped the robe and mask into my

suit-case and lighted my pipe. During great moments like this, a man

gathers courage and confidence from a pipeful of tobacco. I dropped

into a comfortable Morris, touched the gas-logs, and fell into a

pleasant dream. It was not necessary for me to start for the

Twenty-third Street ferry till nine; so I had something like

three-quarters of an hour to idle away. . . . What beautiful hair that

girl had! It was like sunshine, the silk of corn, the yield of the

harvest. And the marvelous abundance of it! It was true that she was

an artist's model; it was equally true that she had committed a mild

impropriety in addressing me as she had; but, for all I could see, she

was a girl of delicate breeding, doubtless one of the many whose family

fortunes, or misfortunes, force them to earn a living. And it is no

disgrace these days to pose as an artist's model. The classic oils,

nowadays, call only for exquisite creations in gowns and hats;

mythology was exhausted by the old masters. Rome, Paris, London;

possibly a bohemian existence in these cities accounted for her ease in

striking up a conversation, harmless enough, with a total stranger. In

Paris and Rome it was all very well; but it is a risky thing to do in

unromantic New York and London. However, her uncle had been with her;

a veritable fortress, had I over-stepped the bounds of politeness.