seemed too cool, too self-possessed always, to show even the ordinary
trace of years. She could not understand him; yet she was surprised by a
glow of affection for him now that he had returned. As he dried his head
she saw that his hair was tinged with gray, although his face was lined
but little and his gray eyes were as keen and quick as ever. If he had
only shared even that part of his life with her--down there!

"Jim!" she whispered.

He turned as he took up his coat. "Yes, Annie?"

"If you would only promise--"

He shook his head. "I won't do that. I didn't come to ask anything of
you except to see the boy But if you need money--"

"No. Not that kind of money."

"All right, girl." And his voice was cheery. "I didn't come here to make
you feel bad. And I won't be here long. Can't we be friends while I'm
here? Of course the boy will know. But no one else need know. And--you
better see to the folks downstairs. Some one just came in."

She turned and walked down the hall, wondering if he had ever cared for
her, and wondering if her boy, Lorry, would ever come to possess that
almost unhuman quality of intense alertness, that incomprehensible
coolness that never allowed him to forget what he was for an instant.

When Waring came down she did not introduce him to the boarders, a fact
that sheriff Buck Hardy, who dined at the hotel, noted with some