"The most beautiful woman in the world," said Mrs. Hovey.
This from a woman who was herself beautiful! Amazing! I
suppose my face betrayed my thought.
"It isn't charity," she smiled. "Like John Holden, I have
seen fire-balloons by the hundred, I have seen the moon,
and--then
I saw no more fire-balloons."
"But who is she?"
Hovey explained. "She is the wife of Senor Ramal. They came
here some ten days ago, with letters to one or two of the best
families, and that's all we know about them. The senora is
an entrancing mixture of Cleopatra, Sappho, Helen of Troy, and
the
devil. She had the town by the ears in twenty-four hours, and
you
wouldn't wonder at it if you saw her."
Already I felt that I knew, but I wanted to make sure.
"Byron has described her," I suggested, "in Childe Harold."
"Hardly," said Hovey. "No midnight beauty for hers, thank
you. Her hair is the most perfect gold. Her eyes are green; her
skin remarkably fair. What she may be is unknowable, but she
certainly is not Spanish; and, odder still, the senor
himself fits the name no better."
But I thought it needless to ask for a description of Harry;
for I had no doubt of the identity of Senor Ramal and his wife.
I
pondered over the name, and suddenly realized that it was merely
"Lamar" spelled backward!
The discovery removed the last remaining shadow of doubt.
I asked in a tone of assumed indifference for their hotel,
expressing a desire to meet them--and was informed by Hovey that
they had left Denver two days previously, nor did he know where
they had gone.
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