The Danger Trail | Page 5

close-cropped hair and attired in
evening dress.
"A pot of tea," ordered Howland; and under his breath he added,
"Pretty deuced good for a wilderness town! I wonder--"
He looked about him curiously. Although it was only eleven o'clock the
place appeared to be empty. Yet Howland was reasonably assured that
it was not empty. He was conscious of sensing in a vague sort of way
the presence of others somewhere near him. He was sure that there was
a faint, acrid odor lurking above that of burned incense, and he
shrugged his shoulders with conviction when he paid a dollar for his
pot of tea.
"Opium, as sure as your name is Jack Howland," he said, when the
waiter was gone. "I wonder again--how many pots of tea do they sell in
a night?"
He sipped his own leisurely, listening with all the eagerness of the new
sense of freedom which had taken possession of him. The Chinaman
had scarcely disappeared when he heard footsteps on the stair. In
another instant a low word of surprise almost leaped from his lips.
Hesitating for a moment in the doorway, her face staring straight into
his own, was the girl whom he had seen through the hotel window!
For perhaps no more than five seconds their eyes met. Yet in that time
there was painted on his memory a picture that Howland knew he
would never forget. His was a nature, because of the ambition imposed
on it, that had never taken more than a casual interest in the form and
feature of women. He had looked on beautiful faces and had admired
them in a cool, dispassionate way, judging them--when he judged at
all--as he might have judged the more material workmanship of his
own hands. But this face that was framed for a few brief moments in
the door reached out to him and stirred an interest within him which
was as new as it was pleasurable. It was a beautiful face. He knew that
in a fraction of the first second. It was not white, as he had first seen it
through the window. The girl's cheeks were flushed. Her lips were

parted, and she was breathing quickly, as though from the effect of
climbing the stair. But it was her eyes that sent Howland's blood a little
faster through his veins. They were glorious eyes.
The girl turned from his gaze and seated herself at a table so that he
caught only her profile. The change delighted him. It afforded him
another view of the picture that had appeared to him in the doorway,
and he could study it without being observed in the act, though he was
confident that the girl knew his eyes were on her. He refilled his tiny
cup with tea and smiled when he noticed that she could easily have
seated herself behind one of the screens. From the flush in her cheeks
his eyes traveled critically to the rich glow of the light in her shining
brown hair, which swept half over her ears in thick, soft waves, caught
in a heavy coil low on her neck. Then, for the first time, he noticed her
dress. It puzzled him. Her turban and muff were of deep gray lynx fur.
Around her shoulders was a collarette of the same material. Her hands
were immaculately gloved. In every feature of her lovely face, in every
point of her dress, she bore the indisputable mark of refinement. The
quizzical smile left his lips. The thoughts which at first had filled his
mind as quickly disappeared. Who was she? Why was she here?
With cat-like quietness the young Chinaman entered between the
screens and stood beside her. On a small tablet which Howland had not
before observed she wrote her order. It was for tea. He noticed that she
gave the waiter a dollar bill in payment and that the Chinaman returned
seventy-five cents to her in change.
"Discrimination," he chuckled to himself. "Proof that she's not a
stranger here, and knows the price of things."
He poured his last half cup of tea and when he lifted his eyes he was
surprised to find that the girl was looking at him. For a brief interval
her gaze was steady and clear; then the flush deepened in her cheeks;
her long lashes drooped as the cold gray of Howland's eyes met hers in
unflinching challenge, and she turned to her tea. Howland noted that
the hand which lifted the little Japanese pot was trembling slightly. He
leaned forward, and as if impelled by the movement, the girl turned her
face to him again, the tea-urn poised above her cup. In her dark eyes

was an expression which half brought him to his feet, a wistful glow, a