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Page 22
"And that--was John Keith!"
He bowed his head in confirmation of the lie, and, thinking of
Conniston, he said:
"He was the finest gentleman I ever knew. And I am sorry he is dead."
"And I, too, am sorry."
She was reaching a hand across the table to him, slowly, hesitatingly.
He stared at her.
"You mean that?"
"Yes, I am sorry."
He took her hand. For a moment her fingers tightened about his own.
Then they relaxed and drew gently away from him. In that moment he saw
a sudden change come into her face. She was looking beyond him, over
his right shoulder. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilated under his
gaze, and she held her breath. With the swift caution of the man-hunted
he turned. The room was empty behind him. There was nothing but a
window at his back. The rain was drizzling against it, and he noticed
that the curtain was not drawn, as they were drawn at the other
windows. Even as he looked, the girl went to it and pulled down the
shade. He knew that she had seen something, something that had startled
her for a moment, but he did not question her. Instead, as if he had
noticed nothing, he asked if he might light a cigar.
"I see someone smokes," he excused himself, nodding at the cigarette
butts.
He was watching her closely and would have recalled the words in the
next breath. He had caught her. Her brother was out of town. And there
was a distinctly unAmerican perfume in the smoke that someone had left
in the room. He saw the bit of red creeping up her throat into her
cheeks, and his conscience shamed him. It was difficult for him not to
believe McDowell now. Shan Tung had been there. It was Shan Tung who
had left the hall as he entered. Probably it was Shan Tung whose face
she had seen at the window.
What she said amazed him. "Yes, it is a shocking habit of mine, Mr.
Conniston. I learned to smoke in the East. Is it so very bad, do you
think?"
He fairly shook himself. He wanted to say, "You beautiful little liar,
I'd like to call your bluff right now, but I won't, because I'm sorry
for you!" Instead, he nipped off the end of his cigar, and said:
"In England, you know, the ladies smoke a great deal. Personally I may
be a little prejudiced. I don't know that it is sinful, especially when
one uses such good judgment--in orientals." And then he was powerless
to hold himself back. He smiled at her frankly, unafraid. "I don't
believe you smoke," he added.
He rose to his feet, still smiling across at her, like a big brother
waiting for her confidence. She was not alarmed at the directness with
which he had guessed the truth. She was no longer embarrassed. She
seemed for a moment to be looking through him and into him, a strange
and yearning desire glowing dully in her eyes. He saw her throat
twitching again, and he was filled with an infinite compassion for this
daughter of the man he had killed. But he kept it within himself. He
had gone far enough. It was for her to speak. At the door she gave him
her hand again, bidding him good-night. She looked pathetically
helpless, and he thought that someone ought to be there with the right
to take her in his arms and comfort her.
"You will come again?" she whispered.
"Yes, I am coming again," he said. "Good-night."
He passed out into the drizzle. The door closed behind him, but not
before there came to him once more that choking sob from the throat of
Miriam Kirkstone.
IX
Keith's hand was on the butt of his revolver as he made his way through
the black night. He could not see the gravel path under his feet but
could only feel it. Something that was more than a guess made him feel
that Shan Tung was not far away, and he wondered if it was a
premonition, and what it meant. With the keen instinct of a hound he
was scenting for a personal danger. He passed through the gate and
began the downward slope toward town, and not until then did he begin
adding things together and analyzing the situation as it had
transformed itself since he had stood in the door of the Shack,
welcoming the storm from the western mountains. He thought that he had
definitely made up his mind then; now it was chaotic. He could not
leave Prince Albert immediately, as the inspiration had moved him a few
hours before. McDowell had practically given him an assignment. And
Miss Kirkstone was holding him. Also Shan Tung. He felt within himself
the sensation of one who was traveling on very thin ice, yet he could
not tell just where or why it was thin.
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