and Jim rattled his paper and remarked casually on the headlines as he would to any stranger. But two hours later they stood in Harris' room, looking down into the street where Helen stopped her noisy car to let John Taylor out, and Harris looked at Rowe and winked as he might have winked at a companion of years.
"Quite a gal, what?" he chuckled. "And maybe that explains a lot, Rowe."
The other's lips twitched in a sardonic smile, and though he said nothing it was evident that he understood.
Taylor did not look at the hotel register, for Henry Wales was at the desk, struggling over one of his pale, inflammable cigars, else he would have seen the fine signatures "M. Murray, Detroit." That might have added to the trouble that lurked in his eyes, aftermath of yesterday's scene; or, to have linked her name with Rowe's might have been relief. No matter. John did not seek information from the register, but asked his question of Henry, who said that Mr. Rowe got in last night; was upstairs now. "This's him, " as steps sounded on the stairs.
Rowe and Harris came down together and the former suavely greeted John, assured and superior.
"You know Mr. Harris, of course."
Yes, Taylor knew Harris, and as he acknowledged the acquaintance he looked from one to the other, sensing something of their kinship, but reading no import there—not then.
Harris went out. Taylor and Rowe went into the small and hideous parlor of the hotel. They smoked. They talked briskly of Luke and John's mother, of the lumber market, of the season, Rowe waiting like a cat at a mouse-hole
