CHAPTER III

FOSTER TOO


The apartment Tisdale called home was in a high corner of the Alaska
building, where the western windows, overtopping other stone and brick
blocks of the business center, commanded the harbor, caught like a faceted
jewel between Duwamish Head and Magnolia Bluff, and a far sweep of the
outer Sound set in wooded islands and the lofty snow peaks of the Olympic
peninsula. Next to his summer camp in the open he liked this eyrie, and
particularly he liked it at this hour of the night tide. He drew his chair
forward where the stiff, salt wind blew full in his face, but Foster, who
had found the elevator not running and was somewhat heated by his long
climb to the "summit," took the precaution of choosing a sheltered place
near the north window, which was closed. A shaded electric lamp cast a
ring of light on the package he had laid on the table between them, but
the rest of the room was in shadow, and from his seat he glanced down on
the iridescent sign displays of Second Avenue, then followed the lines of
street globes trailing away to the brilliant constellations set against
the blackness of Queen Anne hill.

"She is to be out of town a week," he said, "and I hardly liked to leave
Weatherbee's things with a hotel clerk; since I am sailing on the _Admiral
Sampson_ tonight, I brought the package back. You will have to be your own
messenger."

"That's all right, Foster; I can find another when she returns. I'll ask
Banks."