The Dark Star

The east dining-room was almost empty now, though the lobby and the

café beyond still swarmed with people arriving and departing. Brandes,

chafing at the telephone, had finally succeeded in getting Stull on

the wire, only to learn that the news from Saratoga was not agreeable;

that they had lost on every horse. Also, Stull had another disquieting

item to detail; it seemed that Maxy Venem had been seen that morning

in the act of departing for New York on the fast express; and with him

was a woman resembling Brandes' wife.

"Who saw her?" demanded Brandes.

"Doc. He didn't get a good square look at her. You know the hats women

wear."

"All right. I'm off, Ben. Good-bye."

The haunting uneasiness which had driven him to the telephone

persisted when he came out of the booth. He cast a slow, almost sleepy

glance around him, saw no familiar face in the thronged lobby, then he

looked at his watch.

The car had been ordered for ten; it lacked half an hour of the time;

he wished he had ordered the car earlier.

For now his uneasiness was verging on that species of superstitious

inquietude which at times obsesses all gamblers, and which is known as

a "hunch." He had a hunch that he was "in wrong" somehow or other; an

overpowering longing to get on board the steamer assailed him--a

desire to get out of the city, get away quick.

The risk he had taken was beginning to appear to him as an unwarranted

piece of recklessness; he was amazed with himself for taking such a

chance--disgusted at his foolish and totally unnecessary course with

this young girl. All he had had to do was to wait a few months. He

could have married in safety then. And even now he didn't know whether

or not the ceremony performed by Parson Smawley had been an illegally

legal one; whether it made him a bigamist for the next three months or

only something worse. What on earth had possessed him to take such a

risk--the terrible hazard of discovery, of losing the only woman he

had ever really cared for--the only one he probably could ever care

for? Of course, had he been free he would have married her. When he

got his freedom he would insist on another ceremony. He could persuade

her to that on some excuse or other. But in the meanwhile!

He entered the deserted dining-room, came over to where Rue was

waiting, and sat down, heavily, holding an unlighted cigar between his

stubby fingers.

"Well, little girl," he said with forced cheerfulness, "was I away

very long?"

"Not very."

"You didn't miss me?" he inquired, ponderously playful.

His heavy pleasantries usually left her just a little doubtful and

confused, for he seldom smiled when he delivered himself of them.