The Carpet From Bagdad | Page 7

but this was
the first instance of his being really interested in it. As his chin was
freshly shaven he had no stubble to stroke to excite his mental
processes; so he fell back, as we say, upon the consoling ends of his
abundant mustache. Curious; but all these persons were occupying or
about to occupy adjacent rooms. There was truly nothing mysterious
about it, save that the stranger had picked out these very names as a
target for his banter. Fortune Chedsoye; it was rather an unusual name;
but as she had arrived only an hour or so before, he could not distinctly
recall her features. And then, there was that word bucolic. He mentally
turned it over and over as physically he was wont to do with post-cards
left in his care to mail. He could make nothing of the word, except that
it smacked of the East Indian plague.
Here he was saved from further cerebral agony by a timely interruption.
A man, who was not of bucolic persuasion either in dress or speech,
urban from the tips of his bleached fingers to the bulb of his bibulous
nose, leaned across the counter and asked if Mr. Horace Ryanne had
yet arrived. Yes, he had just arrived; he was even now on his way to his
room. The urban gentleman nodded. Then, with a finger slim and
well-trimmed, he trailed up and down the guest-list.

"Ha! I see that you have the Duke of What-d'-ye-call from Germany
here. I'll give you my card. Send it up to Mr. Ryanne. No hurry. I shall
be in again after dinner."
He bustled off toward the door. He was pursy, well-fed, and decently
dressed, the sort of a man who, when he moved in any direction,
created the impression that he had an important engagement
somewhere else or was paring minutes from timetables. For a man in
his business it was a clever expedient, deceiving all but those who
knew him. He hesitated at the door, however, as if he had changed his
mind in the twenty-odd paces it took to reach it. He stared for a long
period at the elderly gentleman who was watching the feluccas on the
river through the window. The white mustache and imperial stood out
in crisp relief against the ruddy sunburn on his face. If he was aware of
this scrutiny on the part of the pursy gentleman, he gave not the least
sign. The revolving door spun round, sending a puff of outdoor air into
the lounging-room. The elderly gentleman then smiled, and applied his
thumb and forefinger to the waxen point of his imperial.
In the intervening time Mr. Ryanne entered his room, threw the bundle
on the bed, sat down beside it, and read his letter. Shadows and lights
moved across his face; frowns that hardened it, smiles that mellowed it.
Women hold the trick of writing letters. Do they hate, their thoughts
flash and burn from line to line. Do they love, 'tis lettered music. Do
they conspire, the breadth of their imagination is without horizon. At
best, man can indite only a polite business letter, his love-notes were
adjudged long since a maudlin collection of loose sentences. In this
letter Mr. Ryanne found the three parts of life.
"She's a good general; but hang these brimstone efforts of hers. She
talks too much of heart. For my part, I prefer to regard it as a mere
physical function, a pump, a motor, a power that gives action to the
legs, either in coming or in going, more especially in going." He
laughed. "Well, hers is the inspiration and hers is the law. And to think
that she could plan all this on the spur of the moment, down to the
minutest detail! It's a science." He put the letter away, slid out his legs
and glared at the dusty tips of his shoes, "The United Romance and

Adventure Company, Ltd., of New York, London, and Paris. She has
the greatest gift of all, the sense of humor."
He rose and opened his kit-bag doubtfully. He rummaged about in the
depths and at last straightened up with a mild oath.
"Not a pair of cuffs in the whole outfit, not a shirt, not a collar. Oh, well,
when a man has to leave Bagdad the way I did, over the back fence, so
to speak, linen doesn't count."
He drew down his cuffs, detached and reversed them, he turned his
folding collar wrong-side out, and used the under side of the foot-rug as
a shoe-polisher. It was the ingenious procedure of a man who was used
to being out late of nights, who made all things answer all purposes.
This rapid and singularly careless toilet completed, he centered his
concern upon