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It was half-past six, but she did not feel at all hungry. She felt with a smothered exclamation she jumped up, ran to the telephone and ordered her dinner. At eight o'clock Mayer's voice on the phone brought back a slight, faint echo of the thrill. What he said was matter-of-fact and colorless he had warned her that it would be just if she was comfortable and everything Was all right.
It was of no use now. She would have liked to recall it, but it was too late; the clock on the table marked eleven. Through the fitful sleep of her uneasy night it came back, invested by the magnifying power of dreams with a fantastic malignity; in waking moments showing as a bit of spite, dwindled to nothing before the forces gathering for Mayer's destruction.
Plekhanov muttered, "That'll be enough, Barry." But Mayer's eyes had widened. "How did you know?" He whirled on Plekhanov. "You're spying on my efforts, trying to negate my work!" Plekhanov rumbled, "Don't be a fool, Mayer. My team has neither the time nor interest to spy on you." "Then how did you know " Barry Watson said mildly, "I was doing some investigation in the ship's library.
He sometimes took out the old sketch of Madame Mayer's portrait, and setting it upon his easel, tried to realise and bring back those times when she had sat for him.
This gave him the opportunity to set in action one of those secret systems of espionage at which the Oriental is proficient. The cook, confined to his kitchen, became a communicating link between Fong and Jim, the room boy who attended to Mayer's apartment.
The chatter of the careless girls dwindled, the faces of the rival drivers grew pale and tense. "Oh, be careful!" murmured Miss Herron. "It's very dangerous." "Very," replied Archie. "Promise me Lucy and I'll slow up." A sudden little shriek of joy and some handclapping from Mayer's tonneau interrupted what the old lady might have answered.
Madame Mayer's quick eyes had caught sight of Corona and her husband, and from some instinct of curiosity she made towards the Duchessa. She was still angry, as she had never been in her short life, at Giovanni's rudeness in forgetting her dance, and she longed to inflict some wound upon the beautiful woman who had led him into such forgetfulness.
It should be photographed, because, to my certain knowledge, Mayer's drawing gives the year, above the figure of the sun which indicates the date of the calendar, quite wrongly; and yet, presuming on his own accuracy, he accuses another writer of leaving out the hieroglyph of the winter solstice.
If Pancha had still cherished a hope that she might have been mistaken, the sight of Mayer's rage would have extinguished it. He made a step toward her, hard-eyed, pale as she was. "You're mad. That's what's the matter with you. I might have known it when you came. Now go I don't want any lunatics here." She stood her ground and tried to laugh, a horrible sound.
Mayer's last visit to Sacramento had been made three weeks previously. Arguing from past data this would place the next one at two or three weeks from the present time. But, during the last few days, Jim had noticed a change in the man. He had kept to his room, been irritable and preoccupied, had asked for a railway guide and been seen by Jim in close study of it.
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