We drew the man to the sidewalk as a physician’s little automobile with two soldiers in it waded its way slowly through the crowd.
The man laughed. “It is an exciting night. I never have seen Bermuda like this before.”
Swift impressions flooded me. The fellow surely must recognize us as we did him. He was pretending friendliness. I noticed that though he seemed not over forty, his close-clipped hair beneath the white linen cap was silver white. His face had a strange pallor, not the pallor of ill health, but seemingly a natural lack of color. And his voice, speaking good English, nevertheless marked him for a foreigner—though of what nation certainly I could not say.
“We’re mistaken,” said Don. “But you look like someone we know.”
“Do I, indeed? That is interesting.”
“Only you’re taller,” I said. “You’re not a Bermudian, are you?”
His eyes, beneath the heavy black brows shot me a look. “No. I am a stranger; a visitor. My name——”
HE hesitated briefly; then he smiled with what seemed an amused irony. “My name is Tako. Robert Tako. I am living at the Hamiltonia Hotel. Does that satisfy you?”
I could think of nothing to say. Nor could Don. The fellow added, “Bermuda is like a little ship. I understand your inquisitiveness—one must know everyone else. And who are you?”
Don told him.