The Lion's Mouse

								

conductor took it upon himself to attend to that. Sands' suitcase, coat,
and magazines were arranged on both seats, and he sat down to keep
guard. The porter had been told that Miss White wasn't to be disturbed
unless she rang, except at meal times, when he--Sands--would choose
dishes from the menu and send a waiter from the dining-car.
A few toilet things were somehow procured by the negro, and handed into
Stateroom A, with a contribution of novels, magazines, and a box of
chocolates, from Miss White's cousin.
Night, Roger realized, would be the dangerous time, if danger there was,
and he decided not to sleep. Lying awake wasn't, after all, very
difficult, for the portrait of the girl was painted on Roger's mind. He
saw things in that portrait he'd seen but subconsciously in the
original. He thought that her beauty was of the type which would shine
like the moon, set off with wonderful clothes and jewels. And from that
thought it was only a step to picture the joy of giving such clothes and
jewels. The man was surprised and ashamed to find himself thrilling like
a boy.
Daylight released him from duty. He dressed, and had his section made
up. Though all peril--if any--had vanished with the night, Roger
couldn't bring himself to leave his post for breakfast until he saw the
porter tap at the door of Stateroom A in answer to a ring.
"I hope Miss White's feeling better," he said to the negro, when the
door shut once more.
"Yes, sah, she wants her room fixed up. Ah'm gwan do it raight now, but
Ah'm bound to give yuh the lady's message fust. She thought you'd like
to heah she's mighty well, considerin'. An' she'll thank yuh, suh, to
order her some coffee an' toast."
Roger added cantaloupe to the order, and a cereal with cream. The
mysterious girl hidden in his stateroom was no longer an adventuress,
sponging on his idiotic generosity: she was an exquisite, almost a
sacred, charge. As he ate his breakfast in the dining-car he saw a man
he knew sitting directly opposite him at the next table. Their eyes
encountered. Roger felt that the other had been staring at him and
hadn't had time to look away. He bowed, and paused at the table which he
was obliged to pass on his way out.
"How do you do, O'Reilly?" he said, with a slight stiffness. He would
have preferred to walk past with no more than the nod, but in that case
the man would believe his late absent-mindedness had been deliberate.
Roger didn't wish to leave this impression. Justin O'Reilly was nearly
ten years younger than he, but had got the better of him once, and not
long ago. Sands was too proud to let it seem as if the memory rankled.
O'Reilly rose and shook the offered hand. He was tall and lean, and
brown-faced as a soldier back from the war. He had a boyish air, younger
than his thirty-one or thirty-two years: but under that look was the
same sort of hardness and keenness which was the first thing a stranger