They greeted each other, and murmured many words, and, when the introduction was over, Mrs. Jacques turned and asked Mildred to follow her. As she did so, upon her neck, which rose above the loose kimono she wore, was a mole; to the right of it another. Almost midway between the two, but an inch below, was another. And now Mildred Latham gave a start, then she swallowed hard. Where had she seen the moles before—the three moles? Only one person in the world, she was sure, possessed them. She followed the other to a room, and that night she didn't sleep.
The next morning she kissed the other, before she left, but Mrs. Jacques didn't know why. But she watched her strangely, as she walked toward the ferry.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Hello, Brown Skin!"
He came abreast of a depot; it was new, with an imposing front, over which was inscribed TERMINAL STATION in arched letters. It seemed quite a long way back to the colored waiting room, and the station was very narrow. It ran back several hundred feet, where four or five tracks received the incoming and outgoing human traffic. The station, like the one he had come into a short while ago, was filled with men and women, obviously idlers. He lingered only a few minutes, when curiosity led him further. He left the station from the side entrance, and found himself upon a very narrow street. He paused, and as he did so, strains of ragtime music came to his ears. He was curious to see where it came from, and to hear it closer. He crossed the street, and found that it came from a place—a cabaret—but for white people only. He turned away and went down the street, where something odd caught his attention.
He stood where the walks intersected, and gazed to his left. Yes, it was a feature. On either side of the street stood a row of one-story houses. Lights were bright, as bright as day, on either side, which fact filled the narrow street with light also. He passed down one side; and there were multitudes of men sauntering, as he was—but there were no women, excepting in the one-story houses. They stood behind open doors, some of them, while others sat in chairs before a grate fire; but one and all, he noted, were thinly dressed and smiled on everybody—but himself (for, you see, they were white women)—with amorous eyes.
"Come here dearie," said one—and many others said the same. "I have something to tell you." "Indeed," he conjectured, "but secrets appear to be the fashion here."
He walked to the end of that block, and where that street intersected with another. And before him, on eight different sides, was a myriad of the same. Women, thinly clad—and it, you understand, was the month of January....
It was a sight to be indulged; a pastime that was diverting, to say the least. And, since so very many others—men—were seeing it, why then not he?