in a
dark blue travelling dress. Sanda had said that she would come out to
take a table and wait for him; but he walked slowly along without
seeing, even in the distance, a girl alone. Suddenly, however, he caught
sight of a dark blue toque and a mass of hair under it, that glittered
like molten gold in the afternoon sun. Yes, there she was, sitting with
her back to him, and close to a gateway of rose-turned marble pillars
taken from the fountain court of some old Arab palace. But--she was not
alone. A man was with her. She was leaning toward him, and he toward
her, their elbows on the little table that stood between them.

The man sat facing Max, who recognized him instantly from many newspaper
portraits he had seen--and the photograph in Sanda's bag. It was Richard
Stanton, _poseur_ and adventurer, his enemies said, follower and
namesake of Richard Burton: first white man to enter Thibet; discoverer
of a pigmy tribe in Central Africa, and--the one-time guardian of Sanda
DeLisle.

Max had thought vaguely of the explorer as a man who must be growing
old. But now he saw that Stanton was not old. His face had that look of
eternal youth which a statue has; as if it could never have been
younger, and ought never to be older. It was a square face, vividly
vital, with a massive jaw and a high, square forehead. The large eyes
were square, too; very wide open, and of that light yet burning blue
which means the spirit of mad adventure or even fanaticism. The skin was
tanned to a deep copper-red that made the eyes appear curiously pale in
contrast; but the top of the forehead, just where the curling brown hair
grew crisply up, was very white.

The man had thrown himself so completely into his conversation with the
girl, that Max, drawing nearer, could stare if he chose without danger
of attracting Stanton's attention. He did stare, taking in every detail
of the virile, roughly cut features which Rodin might have modelled, and
of the strong, heavy figure with its muscular throat and somewhat
stooping shoulders. Richard Stanton was not handsome; he was rather
ugly, Max thought, until a brief, flashing smile lit up the sunburnt
face for a second. But it was in any case a personality of intense
magnetic power. Even an enemy must say of Stanton: "Here is a man." He
looked cut out to be a hero of adventure, a soldier of fortune, and in
some sleeping depth of Max's nature a hitherto unknown emotion stirred.
He did not analyse it, bu