in dismay, but Hemingway did not hear him. In the
doorway he halted and turned back. From his voice all trace of emotion
had departed. "Why," he asked dully, "do you think Fearing is a
fugitive? Not that it matters to her, since she loves him, or that it
matters to me. Only I would like to think you were wrong. I want her
to have only the best."

Again the consul moved unhappily.

"I oughtn't to tell you," he protested, "and if I do I ought to tell
the State Department, and a detective agency first. They have the
call. They want him, or a man damned like him." His voice dropped to a
whisper. "The man wanted is Henry Brownell, a cashier of a bank in
Waltham, Mass., thirty-five years of age, smooth-shaven, college-bred,
speaking with a marked New England accent, and--and with other marks
that fit Fearing like the cover on a book. The department and the
Pinkertons have been devilling the life out of me about it for nine
months. They are positive he is on the coast of Africa. I put them
off. I wasn't sure."

"You've been protecting them," said Hemingway.

"I wasn't sure," reiterated Harris. "And if I were, the Pinkertons can
do their own sleuthing. The man's living honestly now, anyway, isn't
he?" he demanded; "and she loves him. At least she's stuck by him.
Why should I punish her?"

His tone seemed to challenge and upbraid.

"Good God!" cried the other, "I'm not blaming you! I'd be proud of the
chance to do as much. I asked because I'd like to go away thinking
she's content, thinking she's happy with him."

"Doesn't it look as though she were?" Harris protested. "She's
followed him--followed him half around the globe. If she'd been
happier away from him, she'd have stayed away from him."

So intent had been the men upon their talk that neither had noted the
passing of the minutes or, what at other times was an event of moment,
that the mail steamer had distributed her mail and passengers; and when
a servant entered bearing lamps, and from the office the consul's clerk
appeared with a bundle of letters from the Eitel, both were taken by
surprise.

"So late?" exclaimed Hemingway. "I must go. If I'm to sail with the
Eitel at daybreak, I've little time!"

But he did not go.

As he advanced toward Harris with his hand outstretched in adieu, the
face of the consul halted him. With the letters, the clerk had placed
upon the table a visiting-card, and as it lay in the circle of light
from the l