"He's Lavelle all right—but nobody'll ever get it out of me. He's square," he muttered to himself, and as he did so he tore the paper into small bits.
CHAPTER II
"You marther get him better you kom-men back?" asked Chang, breaking a long silence as Whitridge and he came to the Cambodia's gangway.
Just then Miss Granville and her maid went by, but Whitridge did not catch her glance of recognition.
"You not—you never kom-men back," said the Chinaman, shaking his head disconsolately and bringing Whitridge's gaze away from the splendid figure of womanhood moving up the gangway. The devotion that shone in the yellow giant's eyes pierced his heart.
"Maybe, Chang—maybe. I don't know," answered Whitridge. "Good-by, old man—good-by." He caught Chang's yellow hand and wrung it and coolies idling round wondered at the sight. "You're white all——" He wanted to tell him that he was white all through, but something closed his throat and he dared not trust himself further. He fled up the gangway.
When he reached the deck he looked back, intending to give Chang a farewell hand wave, but the Chinaman had disappeared. He searched the pier from end to end, but there was a dimness in his eyes and they made no discovery. He turned to go forward and collided with two men, one in the uniform of a United States naval lieutenant and the other in civilian garb.
"I beg your pardon," he said quickly and then his gaze met the officer's.
A challenging tenseness straightened Whitridge. The man in uniform started back a step as if he had been struck. Then, his good-looking, but weak face went pale, his lips parted loosely, and his features became as expressionless as so much putty, under the glance which Whitridge shot at him. It was a glance of but a second. It began in hostility and ended with a lash of contempt as he swung on forward.