"But you wouldn't have surrendered like this if I hadn't been with you!"
"I'd have put up some kind of a scrap, I suppose. I should have kept my head, and didn't."
"But through fault of mine...."
"It might have been worse," he interrupted. "They didn't hurt you. I'll be given my destroyer. I'm a good navigator. Better take off your coat; otherwise you will feel it when you go out." He laid his hands on her shoulders—and whispered: "Be on your guard! They must not know that you know. Follow my leads. They are watching or listening."
"I'll keep the coat on." She sat down, trembling.
He began to walk about. From time to time he touched his lips with his handkerchief.
She watched him. All through the night he had puzzled her as no man had ever puzzled her before. She knew that he was strong, resourceful, courageous. And yet he had taken that blow on the mouth without comment, without a sign of wrath. Resourceful, he had carried that receipt with him. Her fault, directly and indirectly. His discovery that Norma Farrington—Hilda Nordstrom—and The Yellow Typhoon were two individuals had befogged his foresight. He had probably dashed out of the hotel with no thought but of finding her. It would have been the simplest thing in the world to leave the receipt in the key-box. Beaten because of her!
"Think of finding you!" he said. He covered the length of the room again. "No doubt you think I'm a queer codger. The fact is I never waste time or energy in wailing. When I lose I pay. When I win I pocket the stakes. I never drop out of a game, once I take up the cards." He sat down beside her. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"
Good Heavens! But she managed to say, calmly, "In a play?" She lifted the veil to the tip of her nose. "Oh yes. It goes very well that way." A cue? Very good; she would follow up this bewildering lead, even if her heart did begin to act queerly.
"I mean in real life."