The Swindler and Other Stories | Page 2

it. He swindled me out of five hundred dollars, and I can tell you I was mad at first. But now that he is flying from justice, I'm game enough to want him to get away. I suppose my sympathies generally lie with the hare, Mr. West. I'm sorry if it annoys you, but I was created that way."
West was frowning, but he smiled with some cynicism over her last remarks.
"Besides," she continued, "I couldn't help admiring him. He has a regular genius for swindling--that man. You'll agree with me there?"
A sudden heavy roll of the vessel pitched her forward before he could reply. He caught her round the waist, saving her from a headlong fall, and she clung to him, laughing like a child at the mishap.
"I think I'll have to go below," she decided regretfully. "But you've been good to me, and I'm glad I spoke. I've always been somewhat prejudiced against detectives till to-day. My cousin Archie--you saw him in the cardroom last night--vowed you were nothing half so interesting. Why is it, I wonder, that detectives always look like journalists?" She looked at him with eyes of friendly criticism. "You didn't deceive me, you see. But then"--ingenuously--"I'm clever in some ways, much more clever than you'd think. Now you won't cut me next time we meet, will you? Because--perhaps--I'm going to ask you to do something for me."
"What do you want me to do?"
The man's voice was hard, his eyes cold as steel, but his question had in it a shade--just a shade--of something warmer than mere curiosity.
She took him into her confidence without an instant's hesitation.
"My cousin Archie--you may have noticed--you were looking on last night--he's a very careless player, and headstrong too. But he can't afford to lose any, and I don't want him to come to grief. You see, I'm rather fond of him."
"Well?"
The man's brows were drawn down over his eyes. His expression was not encouraging.
"Well," she proceeded, undismayed, "I saw you looking on, and you looked as if you knew a few things. So I thought you'd be a safe person to ask. I can't look after him; and his mother--well, she's worse than useless. But a man--a real strong man like you--is different. If I were to introduce you, couldn't you look after him a bit--just till we get across?"
With much simplicity she made her request, but there was a tinge of anxiety in her eyes. Certainly West, staring steadily forth over the grey waste of tumbling waters, looked sufficiently forbidding.
After several seconds of silence he flung an abrupt question:
"Why don't you ask some one else?"
"There is no one else," she answered.
"No one else?" He made a gesture of impatient incredulity.
"No one that I can trust," she explained.
"And you trust me?"
"Of course I do."
"Why?" Again he looked at her with a piercing scrutiny. His eyes held a savage, almost a threatening expression.
But the girl only laughed, lightly and confidently.
"Why? Oh, just because you are trustworthy, I guess. I can't think of any other reason."
West's look relaxed, became abstracted, and finally fell away from her.
"You appear to be a lady of some discernment," he observed drily.
She proffered her hand impulsively, her eyes dancing.
"My, that's the first pretty thing you've said to me!" she declared flippantly. "I just like you, Mr. West!"
West was feeling for his cigarette case. He gave her his hand without looking at her, as if her approbation did not greatly gratify him. When she was gone he moved away along the wind-swept deck with his collar up to his ears and his head bent to the gale. His conversation with the American girl had not apparently made him feel any more sociably inclined towards his fellow-passengers.
* * * * *
Certainly, as Cynthia had declared, young Archibald Bathurst was an exceedingly reckless player. He lacked the judgment and the cool brain essential to a good cardplayer, with the result that he lost much more often than he won. But notwithstanding this fact he had a passion for cards which no amount of defeat could abate--a passion which he never failed to indulge whenever an opportunity presented itself.
At the very moment when his cousin was making her petition on his behalf to the surly Englishman on deck, he was seated in the saloon with three or four men older than himself, playing and losing, playing and losing, with almost unvarying monotony, yet with a feverish relish that had in it something tragic.
He was only three-and-twenty, and, as he was wont to remark, ill-luck dogged him persistently at every turn. He never blamed himself when rash speculations failed, and he never profited by bitter experience. Simply, he was by nature a spendthrift, high-spirited, impulsive, weak, with little thought for the future and none at all for the past. Wherever he went