The Dark Star

If Rue was tired she did not know it as the car swept her steadily

deeper amid the city's wonders.

On her left, beyond the trees, the great dwellings and apartments of

the Drive were already glimmering with light in every window; to the

right, under the foliage of this endless necklace of parks and

circles, a summer-clad throng strolled and idled along the river wall;

and past them moved an unbroken column of automobiles, taxicabs, and

omnibuses.

At Seventy-second Street they turned to the east across the park, then

into Fifth Avenue south once more. She saw the name of the celebrated

avenue on the street corner, turned to glance excitedly at Brandes;

but his preoccupied face was expressionless, almost forbidding, so she

turned again in quest of other delightful discoveries. But there was

nothing to identify for her the houses, churches, hotels, shops, on

this endless and bewildering avenue of grey stone; as they swung west

into Forty-second Street, she caught sight of the great marble mass of

the Library, but had no idea what it was.

Into this dusky cañon, aflame with light, they rolled, where street

lamps, the lamps of vehicles, and electric signs dazzled her

unaccustomed eyes so that she saw nothing except a fiery vista filled

with the rush and roar of traffic.

When they stopped, the chauffeur dropped from the rumble and came

around to where a tall head porter in blue and silver uniform was

opening the tonneau door.

Brandes said to his chauffeur: "Here are the checks. Our trunks are at the Grand Central. Get them

aboard, then come back here for us at ten o'clock."

The chauffeur lifted his hand to his cap, and looked stealthily

between his fingers at Brandes.

"Ten o'clock," he repeated; "very good, sir."

Rue instinctively sought Brandes' arm as they entered the crowded

lobby, then remembered, blushed, and withdrew her hand.

Brandes had started toward the desk with the intention of registering

and securing a room for the few hours before going aboard the steamer;

but something halted him--some instinct of caution. No, he would not

register. He sent their luggage to the parcels room, found a maid who

took Rue away, then went on through into the bar, where he took a

stiff whisky and soda, a thing he seldom did.

In the toilet he washed and had himself brushed. Then, emerging, he

took another drink en passant, conscious of an odd, dull sense of

apprehension for which he could not account.

At the desk they told him there was no telephone message for him. He

sauntered over to the news stand, stared at the display of

periodicals, but had not sufficient interest to buy even an evening

paper.

So he idled about the marble-columned lobby, now crowded with a

typical early-autumn throng in quest of dinner and the various

nocturnal amusements which the city offers at all times to the

frequenters of its thousand temples.