"Ah!"
The room, which ten minutes ago was dark and empty, was now brilliantly illuminated, and there was Mr. Adolph Meyer, seated in his chair!
Meyer rose and came forward. "Ah, Mr. Lucas," he said, "dis is indeed a pleasure. Not altokedder unexbected, I admit; but it is always satisfactory to find one's conclusions brove correct. I taught you would have to return to make some final notes on my domestic architecture and my curios. You have seen my place by day. Now you visit me by night. Dat is charming."
Lucas stood by the curtain, overwhelmed with confusion. Not by a word did Mr. Meyer betray any resentment at his presence, but there was a thinly disguised vein of banter in his speech that made the burglar's pulses quicken.
"Berhaps you have not noticed de view I have here, Mr. Lucas," said Meyer. "Come and look."
He threw open the window wide. The moon was playing on the waters of the Channel. Clouds were scurrying across the sky. A lighthouse flashed in the far distance.
"I like dis view," said Meyer. "De sea is always de same—deep and treacherous. One always knows what to exbect, but man you never know. How do you look upon de sea, Mr. Lucas?"
"Good for boating, and—er—bathing," responded Lucas desperately.
"Goot for boating and bading," repeated Meyer. "Dat is so. You are practical. Dat is where you islanders have the advantage over us treamers. But somehow the treams have a habit of outlasting de practice. I do not tink of boating and bading when I look on de sea. I tink of all dat is above it, and below it. On de top, ships carrying men and women and children to continents; below de waves, dead men and women and children, dose who have died by de way, floating by de cables which are carrying words dat make and unmake nations and men. Life and death are dere togedder. Did you never tink of de sea in dat way, Mr. Lucas, when you was not studying domestic architecture and curios?"