II


I felt, for me, adventures had already begun, for my meeting with
the beautiful lady was the event of my life, and though Kinney and
I had agreed to share our adventures, of this one I knew I could
not even speak to him. I wanted to be alone, where I could delight
in it, where I could go over what she had said; what I had said. I
would share it with no one. It was too wonderful, too sacred. But
Kinney would not be denied. He led me to our cabin and locked the
door.

"I am sorry," he began, "but this adventure is one I cannot share
with you." The remark was so in keeping with my own thoughts that
with sudden unhappy doubt I wondered if Kinney, too, had felt the
charm of the beautiful lady. But he quickly undeceived me.

"I have been doing a little detective work," he said. His voice
was low and sepulchral. "And I have come upon a real adventure.
There are reasons why I cannot share it with you, but as it
develops you can follow it. About half an hour ago," he explained,
"I came here to get my pipe. The window was open. The lattice was
only partly closed. Outside was that young man from Harvard who
tried to make my acquaintance, and the young Englishman who came on
board with that blonde." Kinney suddenly interrupted himself.
"You were talking to her just now," he said. I hated to hear him
speak of the Irish lady as "that blonde." I hated to hear him
speak of her at all. So, to shut him off, I answered briefly: "She