"So you're the Yellow Devil I've heard about!" he said. "Well, you
certainly are a pippin!"
Inspecting him with careless curiosity, he turned the bronze over and
over between his hands, noticing a slight rattling sound that seemed
to come from within but discovering no reason for it. And, as he
curiously considered the scowling demon, he hummed an old song of his
father's under his breath: "Wan balmy day in May
Th' ould Nick come to the dure;
Sez I 'The divil's to pay,
An' the debt comes harrd on the poor!'
His eyes they shone like fire
An' he gave a horrid groan;
Sez I to me sister Suke,
'Suke!!!!
Tell him I ain't at home!' "He stood forninst the dure,
His wings were wings of a bat,
An' he raised his voice to a roar,
An' the tail of him switched like a cat,
'O wirra the day!' sez I,
'Ochone I'll no more roam!'
Sez I to me brother Luke,
'Luke!!!!
Tell him I ain't at home!'"
As he laid the bronze figure away and closed, locked and strapped the
olive-wood box, an odd sensation crept over him as though somebody
were overlooking what he was doing. Of course it could not be true,
but so sudden and so vivid was the impression that he rose, opened the
door, and glanced into the private washroom--even poked under the bed
and the opposite sofa; and of course discovered that only a living
skeleton could lie concealed in such spaces.
His courage, except moral courage, had never been particularly tested.
He was naturally quite fearless, even carelessly so, and whether it
was the courage of ignorance or a constitutional inability to be
afraid never bothered his mind because he never thought about it.
Now, amused at his unusual fit of caution, he stretched himself out on
his bed, still dressed, debating in his mind whether he should undress
and try to sleep, or whether it were really worth while before he
boarded the steamer.
And, as he lay there, a cigarette between his lips, wakeful, his
restless gaze wandering, he suddenly caught a glimpse of something
moving--a human face pressed to the dark glass of the corridor window
between the partly lowered shade and the cherry-wood sill.
So amazed was he that the face had disappeared before he realised that
it resembled the face of Ilse Dumont. The next instant he was on his
feet and opening the door of the drawing-room; but the corridor
between the curtained berths was empty and dark and still; not a
curtain fluttered.
He did not care to leave his doorway, either, with the box lying there
on his bed; he stood with one hand on the knob, listening, peering
into the dusk, still excited by the surprise of seeing her on the same
train that he had taken.