“The moonlight was so strong,” you explained, “that I should have known you anywhere.”
“Then your eyes are better than mine,” asserted Mr. Blodgett. “I accused the doctor of using blondine, to atone for my not recognizing him, though I must confess he will have to use a good deal more if he wants to be thought anything but Italian.”
“Then you have met before?” you questioned.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Blodgett. “I was going to tell you when we got through with that mortgage. I knew you would be interested to hear that the doctor was in New York. Seems like Tangier, doesn’t it?”
“In reminiscence,” I assented, merely to gain time.
“None of your rickety ruins,” chuckled Mr. Blodgett.
“But more ruin,” you said.
“And more danger,” I added, pointing out of the window at the passers-by in Wall Street. “Nowhere in my travels, even among races that have to go armed, have I ever seen so many anxious and careworn faces.”
“Most of them look worried,” suggested Mr. Blodgett, “only because they are afraid they’ll take more than three minutes to eat their lunch.”
For a moment you spoke with Mr. Blodgett on business, and then offered me your hand in farewell, saying, “I am very glad, Dr. Hartzmann, for this chance reunion. Mr. Blodgett and I have often spoken of the mysterious Oriental who fell in—and out—of our knowledge so strangely.”