into the narrow space between it and the wall, finally thrusting his
head under the curtains of the tonneau.

It was high and dry, empty as last year's cockleshell. Not a sign of
life, not a loose object of any kind except a filmy thing which
Hambleton found himself observing thoughtfully. At last he picked it
up--a long, mist-like veil. He spread it out, held it gingerly between
a thumb and finger of each hand, and continued to look at it
abstractedly. Part of it was clean and whole, dainty as only a bit of
woman's finery can be; but one end of it was torn and twisted and
stretched out of all semblance to itself. Moreover, it was dirty, as
if it had been ground under a muddy heel. It was, in its way, a
shrieking evidence of violence, of unrighteous struggle. Hambleton
folded the scarf carefully, with its edges together, and put it in his
pocket. Jimmy's actions from this time on had an incentive and a
spirit that had before been lacking. He noted again the number of the
car, and returned to the edge of the dock to observe the yacht. She
had steamed up river a little way for some reason known only to
herself, and was now turning very slowly. She was but faintly lighted,
and would pass for some pleasure craft just coming home. But Jim knew
better. He could, at last, put two and two together. He would follow
the Face--indeed, he could not help following it. In him had begun
that divine experience of youth--of youth essentially, whether it come
in early years or late--of being carried off his feet by a spirit not
himself. He ran like a young athlete down the dock to the nearest
workman, evolving schemes as he went.

The dock-hand apathetically trundled a small keg from one pile of
freight to another, wiped his hands on his trousers, took a dry pipe
out of his pocket, and looked vacantly up the river before he replied