fourteen months!”
“Do you know what?”
“What?”
“I’d give a year of my life for a club steak and all the regular fixings.”
“That isn’t fair! You’ve gone and spoiled my dinner.”
“Wishy-washy chicken! How I hate tin cans! Pancakes and maple syrup! What?”
“Sliced tomatoes with sugar and vinegar!”
“You don’t mean that!”
“I do! I don’t care how plebeian it is. Bread and butter and sliced tomatoes with sugar and vinegar – better than all the ice cream that ever was! Childhood ambrosia! For mercy’s sake, let’s get in before all the wings are gone!”
They entered the huge dining room with its pattering Chinese boys – entered it laughing – while all the time there was at bottom a single identical thought – the father.
Would they see him again? Would he be here at one of the tables? Would a break come, or would the affair go on eternally?
“I know what it is!” he cried, breaking through the spell.
“What?”
“Ever read ‘Phra the Phœnician’?”
“Why, yes. But what is what?”
“For days I’ve been trying to place you. You’re the British heroine!”
She thought for a moment to recall the physical attributes of this heroine.
“But I’m not red-headed!” she denied, indignantly.
“But it is! It is the most beautiful head of hair I ever laid eyes on.”
“And that is the beginning and the end of me,” she returned with a little catch in her voice.
The knowledge bore down upon her that her soul was thirsty for this kind of talk. She did not care whether he was in earnest or not.
“The beginning, but not the end of you. Your eyes are fine, too. They keep me wondering all the time what colour they really are.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“And the way you carry yourself!”
“Good gracious!”
“You look as if you had come down from Olympus and had lost the way back.”
“Captain, you’re a dear! I’ve just been wild to have a man say foolish things to me.” She knew that she might play with this man; that he would never venture across the line. “Men have said foolish things to me, but always when I was too busy to bother. To-night I haven’t anything in this wide world to do but listen. Go on.”
He laughed, perhaps a little ruefully.
“Is there any fire in you, I wonder?”
“Well?” – tantalizing.
“Honestly, I should like to see you in a rage. I’ve been watching you for weeks, and have found myself irritated by that perpetual calm of yours. That day of the riot you stood on the curb as unconcerned as though you had been witnessing a movie.”
“It is possible that it is the result of seeing so much pain and misery. I have been a machine too long. I want to be thrust into the middle of some fairy story before I die. I have never been in love, in a violent rage. I haven’t known anything but work and an abiding discontent. Red hair – ”
“But it really isn’t red. It’s like the copper beech in the sunshine, full of glowing embers.”
“Are you a poet?”
“On my word, I don’t know what I am.”
“There is fire enough in you. The way you tossed about our boys and the Japs!”
“In the blood. My father and I used to dress for dinner, but we always carried the stone axe under our coats. We were both to blame, but only a miracle will ever bring us together. I’m sorry I ran into him. It brings the old days crowding back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I’ll survive! Somewhere there’s a niche for me, and sooner or later I’ll find it.”
“He stopped me in the lobby after you left. Wanted to know what name you were using. I told him rather bluntly – and he went on. Something in his voice – made me want to strike him!”
Dennison balanced a fork on a finger.
“Funny old world, isn’t it?”
“Very. But I’ve seen him somewhere before. Perhaps in a little while it will come back… What an extraordinarily handsome man!”
“Where?” – with a touch of brusqueness.
“Sitting at the table on your left.”
The captain turned. The man at the other table caught his eye, smiled, and rose. As he approached Jane noticed with a touch of pity that the man limped oddly. His left leg seemed to slue about queerly just before it touched the floor.
“Well, well! Captain Cleigh!”
Dennison accepted the proffered hand, but coldly.
“On the way back to the States?”
“Yes.”
“The Wanderer is down the river. I suppose you’ll be going home on her?”
“My orders prevent that.”
“Run into the old boy?”
“Naturally,” with a wry smile at Jane. “Miss Norman, Mr. Cunningham. Where the shark is, there will be the pilot fish.”
The stranger turned his eyes toward Jane’s. The beauty of those dark eyes startled her. Fire opals! They seemed to dig down into her very soul, as if searching for something. He bowed gravely and limped back to his table.
“I begin to understand,” was Dennison’s comment.
“Understand what?”
“All this racket about those beads. My father and this man Cunningham in the same town generally has significance. It is eight years since I saw Cunningham. Of course I could not forget his face, but it’s rather remarkable that he remembered mine. He is – if you tear away the romance – nothing more or less than a thief.”
“A thief?” – astonishedly.
“Not the ordinary kind; something of a prince of thieves. He makes it possible – he and his ilk – for men like my father to establish private museums. And now I’m going to ask you to do me a favour. It’s just a hunch. Hide those beads the moment you reach your room. They are yours as much as any one’s, and they may bring you a fancy penny – if my hunch is worth anything. Hang that pigtail, for getting you mixed up in this! I don’t like it.”
Jane’s hand went slowly to her throat; and even as her fingers touched the beads, now warm from contact, she became aware of something electrical which drew her eyes compellingly toward the man with the face of Ganymede and the limp of Vulcan. Four times she fought in vain, during dinner, that drawing, burning glance – and it troubled her. Never before had a man’s eye forced hers in this indescribable fashion. It was almost as if the man had said, “Look at me! Look at me!”
After coffee she decided to retire, and bade Dennison good-night. Once in her room she laid the beads on the dresser and sat down by the window to recast the remarkable ending of this day. From the stars to the room, from the room to the stars, her glance roved uneasily. Had she fallen upon an adventure? Was Dennison’s theory correct regarding the beads? She rose and went to the dresser, inspecting the beads carefully. Positively glass! That Anthony Cleigh should be seeking a string of glass beads seemed arrant nonsense.
She hung the beads on her throat and viewed the result in the mirror. It was then that her eye met a golden glint. She turned to see what had caused it, and was astonished to discover on the floor near