Quick Action

She blushed and looked at him in a lovely and distressed way.

"What are we to do?" she faltered.

They entered the main hall of the great hotel at that moment, and she turned to look around her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, clutching his arm. "Do you see that man? Do you see him?"

"Which man – dearest? – "

"That one over there! That is the clergyman I saw in the crystal. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Is it going to come true right away?"

"I think it is," he said. "Are you afraid?"

She drew a deep, shuddering breath, lifted her eyes to his:

"N-no," she said.

Ten minutes later it was being done around the corner of the great veranda, where nobody was. The moon glimmered on the Halifax; the palmettos sighed in the chilly sea-wind; the still, night air was scented with orange bloom and the odour of the sea.

He wore his overcoat, and he used the plain, gold band which had decorated his little finger. The clergyman was brief and businesslike; the two clerks made dignified witnesses.

When it was done, and they were left alone, standing on the moonlit veranda, he said:

"Shall we send a present to the Princess Zimbamzim?"

"Yes… A beautiful one."

He drew her to him; she laid both hands on his shoulders. When he kissed her, her face was cold and white as marble.

"Are you afraid?" he whispered.

The marble flushed pink.

"No," she said.

"That," said Stafford, "was certainly quick action. Ten minutes is a pretty short time for Fate to begin business."

"Fate," remarked Duane, "once got busy with me inside of ten seconds." He looked at Athalie.

"Ut solent poetae," she rejoined, calmly.

I said: "Verba placent et vox, et quod corrumpere non est; Quoque minor spes est, hoc magis ille cupit."

In a low voice Duane replied to me, looking at her: "Vera incessu patuit Dea."

Slowly the girl blushed, lowering her dark eyes to the green jade god resting in the rosy palm of her left hand.

"Physician, cure thyself," muttered Stafford, slowly twisting a cigarette to shreds in his nervous hands.

I rose, walked over to the small marble fountain and looked down at the sleeping goldfish. Here and there from the dusky magnificence of their colour a single scale glittered like a living spark under water.

"Are you preaching to them?" asked Athalie, raising her eyes from the green god in her palm.

"No matter where a man turns his eyes," said I, "they may not long remain undisturbed by the vision of gold. I was not preaching, Athalie; I was reflecting upon my poverty."

"It is an incurable ailment," said somebody; "the millionaire knows it; the gods themselves suffered from it. From the bleaching carcass of the peon to the mausoleum of the emperor, the world's highway winds through its victims' graves."

"Athalie," said I, "is it possible for you to look into your crystal and discover hidden treasure?"

"Not for my own benefit."

"For others?"

"I have done it."

"Could you locate a few millions for us?" inquired the novelist.

"Yes, widely distributed among you. Your right hand is heavy as gold; your brain jingles with it."

"I do not write for money," he said bluntly.

"That is why," she said, smiling and placing a sweetmeat between her lips.

I had the privilege of lighting a match for her.

XXVI

When the tip of her cigarette glowed rosy in the pearl-tinted gloom, the shadowy circle at her feet drew a little nearer.

"This is the story of Valdez," she said. "Listen attentively, you who hunger!"

On the first day it rained torrents; the light was very dull in the galleries; fashion kept away. Only a few monomaniacs braved the weather, left dripping mackintoshes and umbrellas in the coat room, and spent the dull March morning in mousing about among the priceless treasures on view to those who had cards of admission. The sale was to take place three days later. Heikem was the auctioneer.

The collection to be disposed of was the celebrated library of Professor Octavo de Folio – a small one; but it was composed almost exclusively of rarities. A million and a half had been refused by the heirs, who preferred to take chances at auction.

And there were Caxtons, first edition Shakespeares, illuminated manuscripts, volumes printed privately for various kings and queens, bound sketch books containing exquisite aquarelles and chalk drawings by Bargue, Fortuny, Drouais, Boucher, John Downman; there were autographed monographs in manuscript; priceless order books of revolutionary generals, private diaries kept by men and women celebrated and notorious the world over.

But the heirs apparently preferred yachts and automobiles.

The library was displayed in locked glass cases, an attendant seated by each case, armed with a key and discretionary powers.

From where James White sat beside his particular case, he had a view of the next case and of the young girl seated beside it.

She was very pretty. No doubt, being out of a job, like himself, she was glad to take this temporary position. She was so pretty she made his head ache. Or it might have been the ventilation.

It rained furiously; a steady roar on the glass roof overhead filled the long and almost empty gallery of Mr. Heikem, the celebrated auctioneer, with a monotone as dull and incessant as the business voice of that great man.

Here and there a spectacled old gentleman nosed his way from case to case, making at intervals cabalistic pencil marks on the margin of his catalogue – which specimen of compiled literature alone cost five dollars.