Paul's mind turned to the blonde giant who had ridden on the train from New York, and the group of friends who had been waiting for him at the station.
"He was up to something—the way he spoke," thought Paul. "And last night he was in that car on the bridge…. Where do these Bols hang out?" he asked aloud.
He was told they made their headquarters at Repetti's pool-room, but though he looked in that establishment half a dozen times in the course of the day, he failed to see them.
"Looking for somebody?" an attendant asked him.
"Yes," said Paul. "Tall man with a light beard. Came in from New York yesterday."
"Oh, that bunch," grinned the attendant. "They've gone fishing again.
Going to get wet, too, if they ain't back soon."
For over three hours then the storm had raged, the rain falling with the force of a cloudburst. At seven it stopped and, going out, Paul found himself drifting toward the house on the hill.
It was there he saw Mary turning in at the gate. He stood for a long time looking at the lights in the windows and thinking those thoughts which can only come to the Ishmaels of the world—to those sons of Hagar who may never return to their father's homes.
"I was a fool for coming," he half groaned, tasting the dregs of bitterness. Unconsciously he compared the things that were with the things that might have been.
"She certainly acted like a queen to Rosa," he thought once.