The Lions Mouse | Page 3

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 noticed about Sands.
"I'd no idea you were out west."
"It's been a flying trip," O'Reilly answered.
"Queer I missed seeing you before. Suppose you've been on board since Los Angeles?"
"I caught sight of you last night for the first time," said the other. "I'm not in your car, and I've been resting up. I came on board tired. One usually does come on board tired!"
"Yes," said Roger. "Well, we shall knock up against each other now and then, here in the diner."
"Sure to. I shall be spending a few days in New York before Washington," O'Reilly volunteered.
"Right! But don't let your coffee get cold for me." Roger passed on.
If his thoughts had not been focussed on the occupant of Stateroom A he would have wondered a good deal as to what had taken Justin O'Reilly on a "flying trip" west. This was O'Reilly's first year in Congress, and he'd manoeuvred to make himself a conspicuous figure in Washington one way or other. His own present interests could not, Roger thought, be interfered with by Justin O'Reilly. The man was a Democrat, and opposed on principle to the cause of John Heron, whom Miss White had called the "California Oil Trust King": but personally the two were friends, even distantly related, and O'Reilly would wish to do Heron no secret injury.
When he got back to his own car Sands found the porter waiting.
"Lady's through breakfus, suh, and would like to see yuh w'en convenient," was the message: and two seconds later Stateroom A's rightful owner was humbly knocking at the door.
The girl's beauty struck the man anew as she smiled him a welcome. She was as well groomed as if she had had a lady's maid.
"Has anything happened? Have you had any trouble on my account?" she inquired.
When Roger said no, nothing had happened, she drew a breath of relief.
"No one in any way noticeable has tried to get acquainted with you?"
"The conductor and porter and a waiter or two are the only persons I've exchanged a word with--except a fellow I know slightly, named O'Reilly, a Congressman from California. I suppose he doesn't interest you?"
"No man interests me ...