He
did not look back. Something was wrong with him, and he knew it. This
chit of a girl with her smooth hair and clear eyes had thrown a grain of
dust into the satisfactory mechanism of his normal self, and the grind
of it was upsetting certain specific formulae which made up his life. He
was a fool. He lighted a cigar and called himself names.
Someone brushed against him, jarring the hand that held the burning
match. He looked up. It was Rossland. The man had a mere twist of a
smile on his lips. In his eyes was a coolly appraising look as
he nodded.
"Beg pardon." The words were condescending, carelessly flung at him over
Rossland's shoulder. He might as well have said, "I'm sorry, Boy, but
you must keep out of my way."
Alan smiled back and returned the nod. Once, in a spirit of sauciness,
Keok had told him his eyes were like purring cats when he was in a humor
to kill. They were like that now as they flashed their smile at
Rossland. The sneering twist left Rossland's lips as he entered the
dining-room.
A rather obvious prearrangement between Mary Standish and John Graham's
agent, Alan thought. There were not half a dozen people left at the
tables, and the scheme was that Rossland should be served tete-a-tete
with Miss Standish, of course. That, apparently, was why she had greeted
him with such cool civility.
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