engaged a pair of rickshaws. As they
jogged down the road, Warrington stepped out from behind the palms and
moodily watched them until the night swallowed them up. He had not
overheard their interesting conversation, nor had he known they were
about until they came down the steps together. He ached to follow
them. He was in a fine mood for blows. That there were two of them
did not trouble him. Of one thing he was assured: somewhere in the dim
past an ancestor of his had died in a Berserk rage.

[Illustration: A Bit of a Lark.]

He had been watching Elsa. It disturbed but did not mystify him to see
her talking to the colonel. Table-chance had brought them together,
and perhaps to a better understanding. How pale she was! From time to
time he caught the flash of her eyes as she turned to this or that
guest. Once she smiled, but the smile did not lighten up her face. He
was very wretched and miserable. She had taken him at his word, and he
should have been glad. He had seen her but once again on board, but
she had looked away. It was best so. Yet, it was as if fate had
reached down into his heart and snapped the strings which made life
tuneful.

And to-morrow! What would to-morrow bring? Would they refuse? Would
they demand the full penalty? Eight thousand with interest was a small
sum to such a corporation. He had often wondered if they had searched
for him. Ten years. In the midst of these cogitations he saw the
group at the table rise and break up. Elsa entered the hotel.
Warrington turned away and walked aimlessly toward town. For hours he
wandered about, seeing nothing, hearing nothing; and it was long past
midnight when he sought his room, restless and weary but wide awake.
He called for a stiff peg, drank it, and tumbled into bed. He was
whirled away into broken dreams. Now he was running down the gridiron,
with the old thrill in his blood. With that sudden inconceivable twist
of dreams, he saw the black pit of the tramp-steamer and felt the
hell-heat in his face. Again, he was in the Andes, toiling with his
girders over unspeakable chasms. A shifting glance at the old
billiard-room in the club, the letter, and his subsequent wild night of
intoxication, the one time in his life when he had drunk hard and long.
Back to the Indian deserts and jungles. And he heard the shriek of
parrots.

The shriek of parrots. He sat up. Even in his dream he recognized
that cry. Night or day.