This was most unsatisfactory, and he reproached himself bitterly
for the involuntary faithlessness that could allow her image to
grow dim. He was almost without hope of seeing her again. And
then, with the inconsequence of dreams and sprites, she appeared
to him.
It was but a glimpse he had, and a tantalizing flash of
recognition from her eyes. It happened in the dusk during the
confusion that accompanied the arrival of No. 7 at Panama, and it
came with a suddenness that stunned him. The station was jammed
with a roaring flood of negroes, another crowd was forcing its way
through the exits in the high iron fence, the street was a crush
of Spiggoty coaches.
Kirk had volunteered to assist an old lady, and his arms were full
of bundles as he guided her between the clicking teeth of a
turnstile. He was helping her into a carriage when he heard the
sharp clatter of hoofs upon the brick pavement, and looked up to
see a fine Peruvian mare hitched to a tan-colored surrey skirting
the confusion. A black coachman was driving, and there were
several people in the carriage. Kirk cast it a casual glance, and
just as he looked it swept into the glare of an electric light.
Out from the back seat shone a perfect oval face, with soft,
luminous eyes.
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