"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!"




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024