We turned again down the asphalt path between the flower-beds of those gardens that are overshadowed by the big hotel. On a bench I caught sight again of the quiet figure that I had noticed on the other side of the Strand. It was the Scotland Yard man. He seemed to be reading an evening paper. But I felt that he was watching, watching....
I didn't mind; even if he did think he was watching some one who knew what had become of the Rattheimer ruby! I felt something comforting and trustworthy in the presence of this other young man; this peculiar cousin of Million's, from whom one heard, quite unresentfully, remarks that one would not forgive in an Englishman, for instance Mr. Brace. Not that Mr. Brace would ever venture on such personalities ... the Honourable Jim now.... Yes, but he's a Celt. A Celt is a person who takes, but cannot give, offence. Most unfair, of course.
The American pursued: "And this cousin of mine? There's another type I shall be interested to see. Tell me about her, Miss Smith, will you? Have you known her long?"
"Oh, yes," I said. "It's some years since I've known Miss Million."
"And well, considering the difference in your positions, that is?"
"Oh, yes, fairly well," I said, thinking of the many artless confidences I'd listened to from Miss Million—then "Million," of our disgracefully inconvenient little kitchen at Putney. Those far-away days seemed very pleasant and peaceful to me to-night! But they—those kitchen days—were no part of the business of the young man at my side.
"D'you get on with her?" he said.
"Oh, yes, thank you."
"You don't tell me much. It's this English reserve I'm always up against. It's a thing you'd need an ice-axe for, I guess, or a hundred years with your families living in the same village," complained the young American, laughing ruefully.
"Were you two girls raised together? School together?"