“Ah, yes,” he smiled. “And so you are a native Bermudian?”
“Yes.”
“And you,” he said to me, “you are American?”
“From New York, yes.”
“That is more interesting. Never have I known an American. You are familiar with New York City?”
“Of course. I was born there.”
His contemplative gaze made me shiver. I wondered what Don was planning as an outcome to this. The fellow seemed wholly at ease now. He was lounging against the drug store window with us before him. My eyes were level with the negligee collar of his blue linen shirt, and abruptly I was galvanized into alertness. Just above the soft collar where his movements had crushed it down I saw unmistakably the loop of a tiny black thread of wire projecting upward! Conclusive proof! This was one of the mysterious enemies! One of the apparitions which had thrown all Bermuda into a turmoil stood materialized here before us.
I think that Don had already seen the wire. The fellow was saying nonchalantly,
“And you, Mr. Livingston—are you also familiar with New York City?”
“Yes,” said Don. He had gone pale and tight-lipped. I caught his warning glance to me. “Yes,” he repeated. “I lived there several years.”