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I'm booked on the Minneapolis, sailing from Tilbury at daybreak; the boat-train leaves at eleven-thirty. I had hoped you might be able to dine with me and see me off." In silence Brentwick returned the cable message. Then, with a thoughtful look, "You are sure this is wise?" he queried. "It's the only thing I can see." "But your partner says "
Brentwick had opened his eyes to the fact that he would be practically useless in San Francisco; he could not harbor the thought of going back, only to become a charge upon Vanderlip. No; he was resolved that thenceforward he must rely upon himself, carve out his own destiny.
Lifting his shoulders in dumb dismay, and endeavoring to compose his features, he entered the tavern. A rosy-cheeked and beaming landlady met him in the corridor and, all bows and smiles, ushered him into a private parlor reserved for the party, immediately bustling off in a desperate flurry, to secure refreshments desired by Brentwick.
The mechanician touched the visor of his cap and hurried off. "Come, Kirkwood." Gently Brentwick drew the girl in with him. Kirkwood lingered momentarily on the doorstep, to listen acutely. But the wind was blowing into that quarter whence they had come, and he could hear naught save the soughing in the trees, together with an occasional burst of rude rustic laughter from the tap-room.
"Romance is dead," contended the young man stubbornly. "Long live the King!" Brentwick laughed quietly, still attentive to the fire. "Myself when young," he said softly, "did seek Romance, but never knew it till its day was done. I'm quite sure that is a poor paraphrase of something I have read. In age, one's sight is sharpened to see Romance in another's life, at least. I say I envy you.
Brentwick had slipped down in his chair, resting his silvered head upon its back, and was smiling serenely up at the low yellow ceiling. Before him on the table his long white fingers were drumming an inaudible tune. Presently rousing, he caught Kirkwood's eye and smiled sheepishly, like a child caught in innocent mischief. The younger man grinned broadly.
The girl sat up, opening her eyes, disengaging her arm. Kirkwood bent forward and touched Brentwick on the shoulder; the latter turned to him a face lined with deep concern. "Trouble," he announced superfluously. "I fear we have blundered." "What is it?" asked Dorothy in a troubled voice. "Petrol seems to be running low. We'll go on as best we can and try to find an inn.
"And you were responsible for all that!" he commented, infinitely amused. Brentwick nodded, twinkling self-satisfaction. "I contrived it all," he said; "neat, I call it, too." His old eyes brightened with reminiscent enjoyment. "Inspiration!" he crowed softly. "Inspiration, pure and simple.
"Then you admit," queried Brentwick civilly, "that you've no legal title to the jewels in dispute?" "Look here, my friend," chuckled Calendar, "when you catch me admitting anything, you write it down in your little book and tell the bobby on the corner.
"Come," he said; "let's get into the house." "But you said I thought you went to Munich," stammered Kirkwood; and so thoroughly impregnated was his mind with this understanding that it was hard for him to adjust his perceptions to the truth. "I was detained by business," responded Brentwick briefly.
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