The dangerous game

A stout, thick-set, clean-shaven Englishman, with round face, iron-gray hair, wide jaws and a pair of shrewd, dark eyes behind a pair of rimless pince-nez, was standing in the pretty lounge of the Hotel St. George, at Corfu, idly smoking a cigarette, and chatting with a good-looking, dark-haired young woman of about thirty, who was also spending some weeks on the beautiful island in the Adriatic.

They had already been there nearly two months, and a friendship had sprung up between them. Both were there for the winter warmth and sunshine. The man was a bachelor and a thorough-going cosmopolitan, who spent his whole life in continuous travel, while the woman was married to a rather good-looking man about five years her senior, whose actual nationality was somewhat obscure, but who was probably a Greek, though he spoke English almost perfectly, as so many educated Greeks do.

The thick-set Englishman, smiling and care-free, was one of the most popular of English novelists, whose name was known in every country throughout the world, Charles Seton Darville. In every bookshop and bookstall on the five continents his works were sold, for they were translated into many languages, even into Arabic and Chinese. In order to obtain the correct local color for his books he was a constant wanderer to and fro across Europe, meeting many people and having many adventures in all sorts of odd corners of the Continent.

The British Prime Minister had once said of him that he knew more of the underworld of Europe than any living Englishman. Certainly Seton Darville turned his unique knowledge of men and matters to good account, as witness the high pitch of excitement with which his books were always written and his descriptions of places and peoples. Hence they sold by the hundred thousand, and brought him in a very considerable income.

He was, however, a very lonely man. Though merry and easy-going to a fault, a careless wanderer who journeyed to and fro with scarcely a single care, he was possessed of a certain little idiosyncrasy which his friends never suspected, for there was another more serious and more strenuous side of his life that he never revealed. The public regarded him as a popular and prosperous novelist--hence he was ever welcome in London society, and hostesses were constantly seeking him out and begging him to grace their tables and their dances.

Because of his awful loneliness amid the vortex of society he had, years before, adopted as his daughter, Rene, a little girl left penniless and alone. Upon her the strong, self-willed man had showered all his affections, and petted her as his own child. But now, ungrateful perhaps for all he had done for her, she had married, and left him again with that terrible loneliness which his friends never suspected.

In such a mood, he was that morning killing time by chatting with little Mrs. Caborn, who, dressed ready to go out, was awaiting her husband. There had been a ball at the Casino on the previous night, and they were discussing it. From where they stood there was presented through the long windows a fine view of the harbor and the azure sea sparkling in the morning sun. Of all the islands in the Adriatic, Corfu is the most picturesque and beautiful, calm and glorious, with its riot of flowers, a veritable paradise for those seeking sunshine and peace.

Darville always rose early. Since the first flush of dawn across the sea he had been writing in his room, busy upon a new romance which he had contracted to write five years before. The popular novelist is always full up with contracts from eager publishers who vie with one another in the matter of increased royalties and who give him commissions years ahead. The scenes of this forthcoming book were laid in Italy, but he had resolved to write it in that sea-girt paradise, away from the bustle of modern life and the distractions of his friends.