The Port of Missing Men | Page 7

our parents dear
were with us when we first began to notice him--that was in Rome.
And now that we are alone he continues to follow our trail just the
same. It's really diverting; and if you were a good brother you'd find out
all about him, and we might even do stunts together--the three of us,
with you as the watchful chaperon. You forget how I have worked for
you, Dick. I took great chances in forcing an acquaintance with those
frosty English people at Florence just because you were crazy about the
scrawny blonde who wore the frightful hats. I wash my hands of you
hereafter. Your taste in girls is horrible."
"Your mind has been affected by reading these fake-kingdom romances,
where a ridiculous prince gives up home and mother and his country to
marry the usual beautiful American girl who travels about having silly
adventures. I belong to the Know-nothing Party--America for
Americans and only white men on guard!"
"Yes, Richard! Your sentiments are worthy, but they'd have more
weight if I hadn't seen you staring your eyes out every time we came
within a mile of a penny princess. I haven't forgotten your disgraceful
conduct in collecting photographs of that homely daughter of a certain
English duke. We'll call the incident closed, little brother."
"Our friend Chauvenet, even," continued Captain Claiborne, "is less
persistent--less gloomily present on the horizon. We haven't seen him

for a week or two. But he expects to visit Washington this spring. His
waistcoats are magnificent. The governor shies every time the fellow
unbuttons his coat."
"Mr. Chauvenet is an accomplished man of the world," declared
Shirley with an insincere sparkle in her eyes.
"He lives by his wits--and lives well."
Claiborne dismissed Chauvenet and turned again toward the strange
young man, who was still deep in his newspaper.
"He's reading the _Neue Freie Presse_," remarked Dick, "by which
token I argue that he's some sort of a Dutchman. He's probably a
traveling agent for a Vienna glass-factory, or a drummer for a cheap
wine-house, or the agent for a Munich brewery. That would account for
his travels. We simply fall in with his commercial itinerary."
"You seem to imply, brother, that my charms are not in themselves
sufficient. But a commercial traveler hardly commands that fine repose,
that distinction--that air of having been places and seen things and
known people--"
"Tush! I have seen American book agents who had all that--even the air
of having been places! Your instincts ought to serve you better, Shirley.
It's well that we go on to-morrow. I shall warn mother and the governor
that you need watching."
Shirley Claiborne's eyes rested again upon the calm reader of the Neue
Freie Presse. The waiter was now placing certain dishes upon the table
without, apparently, interesting the young gentleman in the least. Then
the unknown dropped his newspaper, and buttered a roll reflectively.
His gaze swept the room for the first time, passing over the heads of
Miss Claiborne and her brother unseeingly--with, perhaps, too studied
an air of indifference.
"He has known real sorrow," persisted Shirley, her elbows on the table,
her fingers interlocked, her chin resting idly upon them. "He's traveling

in an effort to forget a blighting grief," the girl continued with mock
sympathy.
"Then let us leave him in peace! We can't decently linger in the
presence of his sacred sorrow."
Captain Richard Claiborne and his sister Shirley had stopped at Geneva
to spend a week with a younger brother, who was in school there, and
were to join their father and mother at Liverpool and sail for home at
once. The Claibornes were permanent residents of Washington, where
Hilton Claiborne, a former ambassador to two of the greatest European
courts, was counsel for several of the embassies and a recognized
authority in international law. He had been to Rome to report to the
Italian government the result of his efforts to collect damages from the
United States for the slaughter of Italian laborers in a railroad strike,
and had proceeded thence to England on other professional business.
Dick Claiborne had been ill, and was abroad on leave in an effort to
shake off the lingering effects of typhoid fever contracted in the
Philippines. He was under orders to report for duty at Fort Myer on the
first of April, and it was now late March. He and his sister had spent
the morning at their brother's school and were enjoying a late
_déjeûner_ at the Monte Rosa. There existed between them a pleasant
comradeship that was in no wise affected by divergent tastes and
temperaments. Dick had just attained his captaincy, and was the
youngest man of his rank in the service. He did not know an orchid
from a hollyhock, but no