“There's another hotel here, then?” said he. And his eyes narrowed
craftily.
“Oh, yes,” I replied, “two or three.”
Then I hesitated. But after all, why evade the man? I had come to his
room with precisely the opposite intent. So, with a nervous abruptness
not unlike his own, I gave him the name of my hotel--and Heloise's. And
at the same time I watched him closely to see if it conveyed anything to
him.
Plainly it didn't. He merely blew out a long spear of smoke, followed it
for a moment with his eyes, and then glanced down at the cigar that he
was turning slowly round and round between his fingers.
But he could not sit quietly for any length of time. He got up again,
with that same jerky abruptness, and, muttering something about the room
being close, strode to the window and threw it open.
He knew that he was acting rather uncivilly, for he turned to me then
and said, with a fairly good imitation of a casual manner--“Mind a
little air?”
“Not at all,” I replied. It was depressing to be talking thus about
nothing, knowing so well what was in his heart and what was in mine. But
I only mumbled the stereotyped phrase, “Not at all.”
He took another drink--neat again. Then he drummed on the table with the
fingers of one hand.
If there is one thing above another that I abominate, it is that kind of
idle drumming. He made it worse by whistling softly between his teeth a
crude song of the streets. I knew that I must keep myself in hand, but
could not help fidgeting a little in my chair.
Nervously self-centered as he was, my discomfort quite escaped him, of
course. What stopped his whistling and drumming appeared to be a sudden
thought that came to him with the tune.
He looked down at me. His eyes narrowed again. He opened his mouth, then
abruptly closed it on the words that were so close to utterance.
When he did speak, I felt certain that his question was not the one he
had meant at first to ask.
“How's the phonograph business?” he said, and tried to smile.
“It's all right,” I replied shortly.
He sat down on the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, and smoked fast.
“What sort of place is that hotel of yours?” he inquired, after a
little.
“Middling. Not so good as this.”
“Near by?”
“Not far.”
“I suppose any rickshaw man would know the way,” he mused.
He fell silent again. Then, finally, he put the question that was on his
mind, not looking at me, trying to speak casually; but his voice was not
quite steady, and I could see the cigar shake in his hand:--
“Have you happened to see a woman over there--young, good looking,
rather slender, blue eyes? Could n't say what name she'd be using.”
In a flash I knew that this was my opening. And on a great wave of
relief--for we had to come to the issue--I leaned back in my chair and
said, “There is such a woman there. She is using the name of Crocker.”
Then I watched him.
I have never seen a man's face go so blank. His jaw dropped--literally.
And his eyes were wide.
I found myself returning his gaze, and nodding rather emphatically. I
kept on nodding.