ment. He
might have made you think of the Trojan Horse--innocuous without, but
teeming with belligerent activity within. He seemed to be laughing
maliciously, though without movement or noise. Then he was all frank
joyousness again. "Good!" he exclaimed. He smote Harboro on the shoulder.
"Good!" He stood apart, vigorously erect, childishly pleased. "Enjoying a
holiday?" he asked.

And when Harboro nodded he became animated again. "You're both going to
take dinner with me--over at the _Internacional_. We'll celebrate. I've
got to take my train out in an hour--I've got a train now, Harboro."
(Harboro had noted his conductor's uniform.) "We'll just have time. We can
have a talk."

Harboro recalled a score of fellows he had known up and down the line,
with most of whom he had gotten out of touch. Peterson would know about
some of them. He realized how far he had been removed from the spontaneous
joys of the railroad career since he had been in the office. And Peterson
had always been a friendly chap, with lots of good points.

"Should you like it, Sylvia?" he asked.

She had liked Peterson, too. He had always been good-natured and generous.
He had seemed often almost to understand.... "I think it would be nice,"
she replied. She was afraid there was a note of guilt in her voice. She
wished Harboro had refused to go, without referring the matter to her.

"I could telephone to Antonia," he said slowly. It seemed impossible to
quicken his pulses in any way. "She needn't get anything ready."

"I could do it," suggested Sylvia. She felt she'd rather not be left alone
with Peterson. "I could use Madame Boucher's telephone."

But Harboro had already laid his hand on the door. "Better let me," he
said. "I can do it quicker." He knew that Antonia would want to
remonstrate, to ask questions, and he wanted Sylvia to enjoy the occasion
whole-heartedly. He went back into the milliner's shop.

"_Peterson_," said the man who remained on the sidewalk with Sylvia.

"I remember," she replied, her lips scarcely moving, her eyes avoiding his
burning glance. "And ... in San Antonio."

They were rather early for the midday meal when they reached the
_Internacional_; indeed, they were the first to enter the dining-room.
Nevertheless the attitudes of the Mexican waiters were sufficient
assurance that they might expect to be served immediately.

Peterson looked at his watch and compared it with the clock in the
dining-room. "The train f