The afternoon was well advanced when her callers left, and Mary had to
make up her work as best she could.
A violent thunder-storm had arisen, but in spite of the lightning she
telephoned Helen.
Wally was still improving.
"I'll be over as soon as I've had dinner," said Mary, "but don't expect
me early."
She was hanging up the receiver when the senior accountant entered, a
little more detached, a little more impersonal than she had ever seen
him.
"We shall have our final report ready in the morning," he said.
"That's good," said Mary, starting to sign her letters. "I'll be glad to
see it any time."
At the door he turned, one hand on the knob.
"I haven't seen Mr. Woodward, Jr., today. Do you expect him tomorrow?"
At any other time she would have asked herself, "Why is he inquiring for
Burdon?"--but she had so much work waiting on her desk, demanding her
attention, that it might be said she was talking subconsciously, hardly
knowing what was asked or answered.
It was dusk when she was through, and the rain had stopped for a time.
Near the entrance to the house on the hill--a turn where she always had
to drive slowly--a shabby man was standing--a bearded man with rounded
shoulders and tired eyes.
"I wonder who he is?" thought Mary. "That's twice I've seen him standing
there...."
Without seeming to do so, a pretence which only a woman can accomplish,
she looked at him again. "How he stares!" she breathed.
As you have guessed, the waiting man was Paul.
For the first time that morning he had heard about the strike--had
heard other things, too--in the cheap hotel where he had spent the
night--obscure but alarming rumours which had led him to change his plans
about an immediate return to his ship. A bit here, a bit there, he had
pieced the story of the strike together--a story which spared no names,
and would have made Burdon Woodward's ears burn many a time if he had
heard it.
"There's a bunch of Bolshevikis come in now--" this was one of the things
which Paul had been told. "'Down with the capitalists who prey on women!'
That's them! But it hasn't caught on. Sounds sort of flat around here to
those who know the women. So this bunch of Bols has been laying low the
last few days. They've hired a boat and go fishing in the lake. They
don't fool me, though--not much they don't. They're up to some deviltry,
you can bet your sweet life, and we'll be hearing about it before long--"
Paul's mind turned to the blonde giant who had ridden on the train from
New York, and the group of friends who had been waiting for him at the
station.
"He was up to something--the way he spoke," thought Paul. "And last night
he was in that car on the bridge.... Where do these Bols hang out?" he
asked aloud.
He was told they made their headquarters at Repetti's pool-room, but
though he looked in that establishment half a dozen times in the course
of the day, he failed to see them.
"Looking for somebody?" an attendant asked him.
"Yes," said Paul. "Tall man with a light beard. Came in from New York
yesterday."
"Oh, that bunch," grinned the attendant. "They've gone fishing again.
Going to get wet, too, if they ain't back soon."
For over three hours then the storm had raged, the rain falling with the
force of a cloudburst. At seven it stopped and, going out, Paul found
himself drifting toward the house on the hill.
It was there he saw Mary turning in at the gate. He stood for a long time
looking at the lights in the windows and thinking those thoughts which
can only come to the Ishmaels of the world--to those sons of Hagar who
may never return to their father's homes.
"I was a fool for coming," he half groaned, tasting the dregs of
bitterness. Unconsciously he compared the things that were with the
things that might have been.
"She certainly acted like a queen to Rosa," he thought once.
For a moment he felt a wild desire to enter the gate, to see his home
again, to make himself known--but the next moment he knew that this was
his punishment--"to look, to long, but ne'er again to feel the warmth of
home."
He returned to the pool-room, his eyes more tired than ever, and found a
seat in a far corner. Some one had left a paper in the next chair. Paul
was reading it when he became conscious of some one standing in front of
him, waiting for him to look up. It was his acquaintance of the day
before--the Russian traveller--and Paul perceived that he was excited,
and was holding himself very high.
"Good evening, batuchka," said Paul, and looking at the other's wet
clothes he added, "I see you were caught in the storm."
"You are right, batuchka," said the other, and leaning over, his voice
slightly shaking, he added, "Others, too, are about to be caught in a
storm." He raised his finger with a touch of grandeur and took the chair
by Paul's side, breathing hard and obviously holding himself at a
tension.
"Your friends aren't with you tonight?"
Again the Russian spoke in parables. "Some men run from great events.
Others stop to witness them."
"Something in the wind," thought Paul. "I think he'll talk." Aloud he
said, pretending to yawn, "Great events, batuchka? There are no more
great events in the world."
"I tell you, there are great events," said the other, "wherever there are
great men to do them."
"You mean your friends?" asked Paul. "But no. Why should I ask! For great
men would not spend their days in catching little fishes--am I not right,
batuchka?"
"A thousand times right," said the other, his grandeur growing, "but
instead of catching little fishes, what do you say of a man who can let
loose a large fish--an iron fish--a fish that can speak with a loud noise
and make the whole world tremble--!"
Paul quickly raised his finger to his lips.
"Let's go outside," he said. "Some one may hear us here..."