sight, while there was that about them that would lead even the most
innocent and conventional second-class passenger to guess at a weapon
concealed somewhere. Some of them looked keenly at Dawson as he
passed along; and although he met their eyes impassively, he--even
he--was conscious of an implied estimate in their glance, as though
they classified him with a look. Once he stepped aside to let a woman
pass. She was large, flamboyantly southern and calm. She lounged
along, a cloak over her left arm, her head thrown back, a cigarette
between her wide, red lips. She, too, looked at Dawson--looked down
at him with a superb lazy nonchalance, laughed a little, and walked
on. The loungers on the sidewalk laughed too, but rather with her
than at Dawson.

"I seem rather out of it here," he told himself patiently, and was
glad to enter the wide portals of Lazarus' Hotel. A grand, swarthy
Greek, magnificent in a scarlet jacket and gold braid, pulled open
the door for him, and heard his mission smilingly.

"A brass-a image," he repeated. "Sir, you wait-a in the bar, an' I
tell-a the boy go look."

"You must be quick, then," said Dawson, "'cause I'm in a hurry to get
back."

"Yais," smiled the Greek. "Bimeby he rain-a bad."

"Rain?" queried Dawson incredulously. The air was like balm.

"You see," the Greek nodded. "This-a way, sir. I go look-a quick."