“I am Miss Ruey,” she announced. “I heard you asking for me.” Her eyes carried the query she had not put into words: “Who are you, and what do you want?” Billy saw and understood, and on the instant a wave of desolation surged over him.
So this was the vision he had volunteered to meet aboard La Estrellita, and by specious lie and hypo-critic mien, turn her back from the portals of Buenaventura to that dear old United States, which, Billy suddenly recalled with poignant pain, is a sizable country in which a young lady may very readily be lost forever. At the moment it occurred to Mr. Geary that the apotheosis of rapture would be a midnight stroll in the moonlight along the Malecon, with the little waves from the Caribbean lapping and gurgling against the beach, while afar, in some bosky retreat, a harp with a flute obbligato sobbed out “'Nita, Juanita” or some equally heart-throb ballad. Yes, that would be quite a joyous journey—with Dolores Ruey.
Billy, with the quick eye of youth, noted that Dolores was perfectly wonderful in a white flannel skirt and jacket, white buck boots, white panama hat with a gorgeous puggaree, a mannish little linen collar, and a red four-in-hand tie. From under that white hat peeped a profusion of crinkly brown hair with a slightly reddish tinge to it; her eyes were big and brown and wide apart, with golden flecks in them; their glance met Billy's hungry gaze simply, directly, and with 'a curiosity there was no attempt to hide. Her complexion was that peculiar shade of olive, with a warm, healthy, underlying tinge that nobody could possibly hope to describe, but which fits in so beautifully with brown eyes of a certain shade. Her nose was patrician; her beautiful short upper lip revealed the tips of two perfect, milk-white front teeth: she was, Billy Geary told himself, a goddess before whom all low, worthless, ornery fellows like himself should grovel and die happy, if perchance she might be so minded as to walk on their faces! He was aroused from his critical inventory when the houri spoke again:
“You haven't answered my question, sir!”
“No,” said Billy, “I didn't. Stupid of me, too. I was staring, instead—because, you see, it isn't often we poor expatriated devils down here climb out of Hades long enough to view the angels! However, come to think of it, you didn't ask me any question. You looked it. My name is Geary—William H. Geary, by profession a mining engineer and by nature an ignoramus, and I have called to deliver some disappointing news regarding Henrietta Wilkins.”
“Is she——”
“She is very much alive and in excellent health—or rather was, the last time it was my pleasure and privilege to call on the dear lady. But she isn't in Buenaventura now.” Mentally Billy asked God to forgive him his black-hearted treachery to this winsome girl. He loathed the task he had planned and foisted upon himself, and nothing but the memory of Mother Jenks's manifold kindnesses to him in a day, thanks to Jack Webster, now happily behind him, could have induced him to go through to the finish. Mentally clinging to the memory of his obligations to Mother Jenks, Billy ruthlessly smothered his finer instincts and with breaking heart prepared to do or die.
“Why, where is she?” Dolores queried, and Billy could have wept at the fright in those lovely brown eyes.
He waved his hand airily. “Quien sabe?” he said. “She left three weeks ago for New Orleans to visit you. I dare say you passed each other on the road—here, here, Miss Ruey, don't cry. By golly, this is a tough one, I know, but be brave and we'll save something out of the wreck yet.”
He took a recess of three minutes, while Dolores dabbed her eyes and went through sundry other motions of being brave. Then he proceeded with his nefarious recital.