The Girl in the Mirror Part 10

"That I am out of work?" she finished, calmly. "You are right."

Laurie beamed at her. Surely his way was clear now!

"I had a streak of luck last year," he resumed. "I collaborated on a play that people were foolish enough to like. Ever since that, money has poured in on me in the most vulgar way. I clink when I walk. Dollars ooze from my pockets when I make a gesture. Last week, at the bank, the cas.h.i.+er begged me to take some of my money away and do something with it. He said it was burdening the inst.i.tution. So, as your adopted brother, I'm going to start a bank-account for you," he ended, simply.

"Indeed you are not!"

"Indeed I am!"

"I agreed to live. I did not agree to--what is it you Americans say?--to sponge!"

He ignored all but one phrase of the reply.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded with quickened interest. "Aren't you an American?"

She bit her lip.

"N-o--not wholly."

"What, then?"

She hesitated.

"I can't tell you that just yet," she said at last.

"Oh-h!" Laurie pursed his lips in a noiseless whistle. The girl's voice was musically English, and though her accent was that of London, up till now she had spoken as colloquially as any American. Indeed, her speech was much like his sister's. He was puzzled.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"That I am not wholly American?" She was smiling at him ironically, but he remained serious.

"Yes. And--oh, a lot of things! Of course you know I am all at sea about you."

The familiar shadow fell over her face.

"When one is within an hour or two of the next world," she asked indifferently, "why should one tell anybody anything?"

"How long have you been in America?"

"All my life, off and on."

This at least was rea.s.suring. He imagined he saw a gleam of light. The girl had declared that she was not a spy, nor involved in war propaganda; but it was quite possible, he reasoned, that she was enmeshed in some little web of politics, of vast importance to her and her group, of very little importance to any one else.

"I suppose," he suggested cheerfully, "that net you've said so much about is a political net?"

They had been speaking throughout in low tones, inaudible at any other table. Their nearest fellow diners were two middle-aged women at least thirty feet away. But she started violently under his words. She made a quick gesture of caution, and, turning half-around, swept the room with a frightened glance. Laurie, his cigarette forgotten in his fingers, watched her curiously, taking in her evident tension, her slowly returning poise, and at last the little breath of relief with which she turned back to him.

"I wish I could tell you all you want to know," she said, "but--I can't.

That's all there is to it. So please let us change the subject."

His a.s.surance returned.

"You're not a crowned head or an escaped princess or anything of that kind, are you?" he asked politely.

This time she really laughed, a soft, low gurgle of laughter, joyous and contagious.

"No."

"Then let's get back to our bank-account. We have plenty of time to run over to the Fifth Avenue branch of the Corn Exchange Bank before the closing-hour. What color of check-book do you prefer?"

"I told you," she declared with sudden seriousness, "that my bargain did not include sponging."

For the first time in the somewhat taxing interview her companion's good humor deserted him.

"My dear girl," he said, almost impatiently, "don't beat the devil around the bus.h.!.+ You've got to live till we can find the right work for you, and that may take some time. You have intelligence enough to see that I'm neither a gay Lothario nor a Don Juan. In your present state of mind you're not fit to decide anything. Make up your mind, once for all, that I'm going to decide for you. It will save us both some trouble."

He stopped. He had discovered that she was not listening to him. She was sitting absolutely still, her head a little turned. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes, wide and staring, were fixed on some one across the room.

Laurie's eyes followed hers. They focused on a man sitting alone at a little table. It was clear that he had just entered, for a waiter stood by his side, and the new-comer was giving judicious attention to the bill of fare.

He was a harmless-looking person, of medium height and rather more than medium stoutness, carelessly dressed in a blue-serge suit. His indifference to dress was further betrayed by the fact that his ready-made black four-in-hand tie had slipped the mooring of a white bone stud, leaving that useful adjunct of the toilet open to the eyes of the world. His face was round, smooth-shaven, and rather pale. He had dark brown hair, surprisingly sleek, and projecting, slightly veiled gray eyes, which blinked near-sightedly at the menu. Altogether he was a seemingly worthy person, to whom the casual observer would hardly have given a second glance.

While the two pairs of eyes across the room stared at him, he confided his order to the waiter. It seemed a brief order, for the brow of the latter clouded as he wrote it down and detachedly strolled off. The new-comer leaned back in his chair, and, as he did so, glanced around the room. His projecting eyes, moving indifferently from table to table, suddenly rested, fixed, on the girl. They showed interest but no surprise. He bowed with a half-smile--an odd smile, bland, tolerant, and understanding. Then, disregarding her lack of response, he fixed his eyes on the wall facing him and waited patiently for his luncheon to be served.

Laurie's attention returned to the girl. She was facing him again, but her eyes looked past him as if he were not there.

"He has found me, even here," she muttered. "Of course he would. He always does."

Laurie looked at her.

"Do you mean," he asked crisply, "that that chap across the room is following you around?"

She looked at him, as if abruptly recalled to the fact of his presence.

Her eyes dropped.

"Yes," she muttered, dully. "I may escape him for a time, but he always learns where I am. He will catch me when he chooses, and roll me about under his paws for a while, and then--perhaps--let me go again."

"That sounds like a certain phase of domestic life," commented Laurie.

"Is he by any chance your husband?"

Her eyes held a rising anger.

"He is not," she said. "I am not married."

Laurie dropped his dead cigarette into the ash tray, and rose with a sigh.

"It's all very confusing," he admitted, "and a digression from the main issue. But I'm afraid I shall have to go to the exertion of reasoning with him."

She started up, but before she could protest or restrain him, he had left her and crossed the room to the stranger's table.