A certain respect was in
these greetings, too, for he had suddenly become a character.
As yet, however, he had not fully considered what this windfall
meant to him. His first thought had been that he could now
discharge his debts, go back to New York, and clear himself before
the law. Yet the more he thought of it the less eager he became to
return. Seven thousand five hundred dollars in gold to Kirk
Anthony, of Panama, Collector, was a substantial fortune. To Kirk
Anthony, of Albany, Distributor, it was nothing. Suppose he went
home and squared his account with the police, what would he do
then? Nothing, as usual. Here, he was proving that the Anthony
breed was self-supporting, at least. And there was another reason,
the weightiest of all. Long before he had reached the end of his
run he realized that not one hundred times the amount of this
capital prize would tempt him to leave Panama before he had seen
Chiquita.
Chiquita was beginning to seem like a dream. At times during the
past week he had begun to wonder if she were not really a product
of his own imagination. His fancy had played upon her so
extravagantly that he feared he would not know her if ever they
came face to face. His mental picture of her had lost all
distinctness; her face was no longer clear-cut before his mind's
eye, but so blurred and hazy that even to himself he could not
describe her with any accuracy.
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