Rodman let the cigar drop from his astonished lips, and caught wildly after it as it fell overboard.
“What?” he demanded, at last. “How’s that?”
“It was a man who looked like me,” elucidated Saxon.
“You are damned right—he looked like you!” Rodman halted, amazed into silence. At last, he said: “Well, you have got the clear nerve! What’s the idea, anyhow. Don’t you trust me?”
The artist laughed.
“I hardly thought you would credit it,” he said. “After all, that doesn’t make much difference. The point is, my dear boy, I know it.”
But Rodman’s debonair smile soon returned. He held up his hand with a gesture of acceptance.
“What difference does it make? A gentleman likes to change his linen—why not his personality? I dare say it’s a very decent impulse.”
For a moment, Saxon looked up with an instinctive resentment for the politely phrased skepticism of the other. Then, his displeasure changed to a smile. He had, for a moment, felt the same doubt when Mr. Pendleton brought his verdict. Rodman had none of the facts, and a glance at the satirical features showed that it would be impossible for this unimaginative adventurer to construe premises to a seemingly impossible conclusion. He was the materialist, and dealt in palpable appearances. After all, what did it matter? He had made his effort, and would, as he had promised Duska, vex his Sphinx with no more questioning. He would go on as Robert Saxon, feeling that he had done his best with conscientious thoroughness. It was, after all, only cutting the Gordian knot in his life. After a moment, he looked up.
“Which way do you go?” he inquired.