LITMIR.BIZ

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hour crept by since dinner—two of them, and it was now drawing near ten o'clock.

      No one entered the door but that Cleo's eyes were instantly upon them, and disappointment had as yet been the only result.

      She endeavored to be her own lively self but it required a great effort.

      Roderic might be in danger, but somehow she was possessed of the idea that it was more from a pair of midnight eyes than a murderous stiletto, for Cleo could not forget the face she had seen, the lovely original of her photograph, who was even now in Dublin.

      Was her power of enchantment over Roderic still unbroken—could she draw him to her even after an absence of two years—had the bar that separated them been cast aside?

      How these questions flashed before her eyes and seemed burned upon her brain like coals of fire. She suffered intensely, but the bluff old sea dog never knew it—indeed he believed her to be unusually brilliant, her wit was so keen and her suggestions as to their coming voyage so remarkably clever.

      She dreaded the thought of having to retire in this state of uncertainty.

      The hour drew on—it neared eleven, and the ladies had wholly disappeared.

      Then Cleo suddenly gave a sigh of relief, for her eager eyes had discovered his well known figure entering the front door of the hotel.

      She noted instantly that he looked disturbed, and that his usually natty appearance was lacking—and practical Cleo knew Roderic had been through an adventure. Half rising as she beckoned to him, she awaited his coming with breathless impatience.

CHAPTER V.

       RODERIC'S REPENTANCE.

       Table of Contents

      Roderic had indeed been up against it good and hard since leaving his cousin at the breakfast table.

      He had entered upon his duties of the day with a vim, desirous of closing his accounts so that he might get away on the next morning, if Cleo and her captain were willing.

      During the morning he was haunted by certain facts which bore heavily upon the relations existing between present conditions and those that prevailed two years back.

      The girl from Porto Rico occupied a prime place in all these reflections.

      Every word that had been spoken by her on the preceding night came again before his mental vision, and underwent a revised scrutiny.

      New solutions sprang up, for he was able to better understand certain things that were uttered.

      Still there was much to puzzle him.

      How came she to know of Cleo, his cousin—true, in times past, when paradise seemed opening to his feet—ah, what a fool's dream he had indulged in—he must have frequently spoken of his cousin, for she was often in his mind; but that would not account for her pertinent remarks concerning Cleo's attachment for him.

      Was it jealousy prompted this?

      Roderic flushed with pleasure at the very thought of such a thing, since the green-eyed monster can never lodge in a human heart unless there still remains love to stir the depths.

      Then, somehow, he felt a strange shudder pass through his whole frame.

      Would it bring trouble of any kind to this loyal cousin, whose welfare was certainly as dear to him as that of a sister?

      He knew much of these southern women—their virtues and frailties—and realized what a serious thing it meant to be passionately loved by one of them, and how ill they brooked rivalry.

      The love Georgia had given him was so entirely different from the pure, unselfish devotion of which Cleo was capable—he knew this as well as any one, and yet with his eyes open he had chosen the rush of the hurricane to the calm, steady current of never changing regard.

      Love is a little god who will have his way despite reason and philosophy.

      Once poor mortal falls under his sway and farewell to discernment—from that time on Cupid sits in the balance, and weighs things to suit his own capricious nature.

      Thus our good Roderic found himself worried with a variety of new questions, such as it had not occurred to him before could ever come up in connection with his affairs.

      They cropped up before him in his business and he found it utterly impossible to get rid of them. What was on the heart must have a place in the mind in spite of stern endeavors to banish his own private affairs from the front.

      Thus the day wore on.

      Things worked fairly well.

      He sent some letters, and toward the close of the afternoon some telegrams in cipher intended for those connected with the government at Washington in whose special line he was working.

      Finally he pronounced his work done.

      Unless some late orders, which he did not look for, turned up to intercept him, he was free to shake the dust of old Erin from his shoes on the morrow.

      He anticipated the voyage to the West Indies with considerable pleasure, for, as the veil of the future can not be raised by mortal hands, how was he to know what strange happenings might occur before the anchor was lifted, to change his relations to the owner of the yacht?

      About sundown he visited a store on Lower Sackville street where he had been receiving his mail.

      There was a message awaiting him.

      It came from Darby.

      How that remarkable man had managed to mail the letter was a puzzle to Roderic, but no doubt he had prepared the envelope with a stamp and found some means of getting it posted by bribing a sailor.

      Darby could accomplish anything under heaven when he made up his mind.

      The note was brief and epigrammatic, just as Darby's speech had always been. Time was worth money to him, and he used very few words.

      "They got me as per agreement. We are on the way to Havre. Will touch at coast of Cornwall for private reasons of captain. Mail this there if possible. The French m'amselle aboard. Charming young woman. Think I shall be pleasantly entertained, as she has a voice like a bird. Do not pity me, comrade. I may go all the way to Monte Carlo. Who could refuse such good fortune? More anon."

      That was all.

      Roderic laughed when he read it.

      "What a sly dog that Darby is—outwardly an iceberg, a glacier, he yet possesses the capacity for adoring lovely woman. Perhaps he may yet be wrecked upon the same reefs that have been the destruction of so many. Alas! poor Yorick. But I am willing to wager that at least he extracts some fun out of this game before he gives up the ghost."

      And now, dinner!

      The thought was delightful, since his appetite had become clamorous, and besides there was great pleasure in the anticipation of some hours in the society of his cousin. Cleo could chat so entertainingly of many things he had seen, for both were great travelers.

      She had visited the frequented thoroughfares of ordinary travel. Besides, she had gone from Europe to India via the overland Afghanistan and Khyber Pass route, had looked upon the celebrated Vale of Cashmere, wandered in Cathay, and was at home in Japan.

      It can be readily understood how much satisfaction Roderic found in chatting with her on these subjects, for the fever of exploration was growing upon him all the while—he yearned to delve amid the wild places of earth seldom or never gazed upon by the eyes of civilization—he had already ridden on elephants in Siam, mounted the Peruvian Andes on a llama, explored the Himalayas with adventurous officers, their only vehicle being drawn by yaks; and once Roderic had scoured the desolate Kirghiz steppes on a tarantas drawn by shuffling camels.

      Secretly he aspired to some day make his way

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