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Page 17
He watched the deluge as it came on with a roar of wind, a beating,
hissing wall under which the tree tops down in the edge of the plain
bent their heads like a multitude of people in prayer. He saw it
sweeping up the slope in a mass of gray dragoons. It caught him before
he had closed the door, and his face dripped with wet as he forced the
last inch of it against the wind with his shoulder. It was the sort of
storm Keith liked. The thunder was the rumble of a million giant
cartwheels rolling overhead.
Inside the bungalow it was growing dark as though evening had come. He
dropped on his knees before the pile of dry fuel in the fireplace and
struck a match. For a space the blaze smoldered; then the birch fired
up like oil-soaked tinder, and a yellow flame crackled and roared up
the flue. Keith was sensitive in the matter of smoking other people's
pipes, so he drew out his own and filled it with Brady's tobacco. It
was an English mixture, rich and aromatic, and as the fire burned
brighter and the scent of the tobacco filled the room, he dropped into
Brady's big lounging chair and stretched out his legs with a deep
breath of satisfaction. His thoughts wandered to the clash of the
storm. He would have a place like this out there in the mystery of the
trackless mountains, where the Saskatchewan was born. He would build it
like Brady's place, even to the rain-water tank midway between the roof
and the ground. And after a few years no one would remember that a man
named John Keith had ever lived.
Something brought him suddenly to his feet. It was the ringing of the
telephone. After four years the sound was one that roused with an
uncomfortable jump every nerve in his body. Probably it was McDowell
calling up about the Jap or to ask how he liked the place. Probably--it
was that. He repeated the thought aloud as he laid his pipe on the
table. And yet as his hand came in contact with the telephone, he felt
an inclination to draw back. A subtle voice whispered him not to
answer, to leave while the storm was dark, to go back into the
wilderness, to fight his way to the western mountains.
With a jerk he unhooked the receiver and put it to his ear.
It was not McDowell who answered him. It was not Shan Tung. To his
amazement, coming to him through the tumult of the storm, he recognized
the voice of Miriam Kirkstone!
VII
Why should Miriam Kirkstone call him up in an hour when the sky was
livid with the flash of lightning and the earth trembled with the roll
of thunder? This was the question that filled Keith's mind as he
listened to the voice at the other end of the wire. It was pitched to a
high treble as if unconsciously the speaker feared that the storm might
break in upon her words. She was telling him that she had telephoned
McDowell but had been too late to catch him before he left for Brady's
bungalow; she was asking him to pardon her for intruding upon his time
so soon after his return, but she was sure that he would understand
her. She wanted him to come up to see her that evening at eight
o'clock. It was important--to her. Would he come?
Before Keith had taken a moment to consult with himself he had replied
that he would. He heard her "thank you," her "good-by," and hung up the
receiver, stunned. So far as he could remember, he had spoken no more
than seven words. The beautiful young woman up at the Kirkstone mansion
had clearly betrayed her fear of the lightning by winding up her
business with him at the earliest possible moment. Why, then, had she
not waited until the storm was over?
A pounding at the door interrupted his thought. He went to it and
admitted an individual who, in spite of his water-soaked condition, was
smiling all over. It was Wallie, the Jap. He was no larger than a boy
of sixteen, and from eyes, ears, nose, and hair he was dripping
streams, while his coat bulged with packages which he had struggled to
protect, from the torrent through which he had forced his way up the
hill. Keith liked him on the instant. He found himself powerless to
resist the infection of Wallie's grin, and as Wallie hustled into the
kitchen like a wet spaniel, he followed and helped him unload. By the
time the little Jap had disgorged his last package, he had assured
Keith that the rain was nice, that his name was Wallie, that he
expected five dollars a week and could cook "like heaven." Keith
laughed outright, and Wallie was so delighted with the general outlook
that he fairly kicked his heels together. Thereafter for an hour or so
he was left alone in possession of the kitchen, and shortly Keith began
to hear certain sounds and catch occasional odoriferous whiffs which
assured him that Wallie was losing no time in demonstrating his divine
efficiency in the matter of cooking.
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