“Near by?”
“Not far.”
“I suppose any rickshaw man would know the way,” he mused.
He fell silent again. Then, finally, he put the question that was on his mind, not looking at me, trying to speak casually; but his voice was not quite steady, and I could see the cigar shake in his hand:—
“Have you happened to see a woman over there—young, good looking, rather slender, blue eyes? Could n't say what name she'd be using.”
In a flash I knew that this was my opening. And on a great wave of relief—for we had to come to the issue—I leaned back in my chair and said, “There is such a woman there. She is using the name of Crocker.” Then I watched him.
I have never seen a man's face go so blank. His jaw dropped—literally. And his eyes were wide.
I found myself returning his gaze, and nodding rather emphatically. I kept on nodding.
Then I said, holding his eyes with mine—
“See here, Crocker, I know all about that. You told me yourself. Have you forgotten?” Slowly the recollection came to him. “Oh, yes,” he replied, “at Yokohama.”