"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!"