THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
was all right with you. When I found that you were my school-teacher, I made up my mind that you had run away from something or somebody. The way you said your name was Jones kind of warned me that it wasn't Jones. But, of course, I couldn't ask any questions."
He paused, rather hoping that she would help him out. But she only hugged the book closer, and the fixity of her gaze troubled him so strongly that he let his wander toward the sea.
"I don't meddle with other people's business," he struggled on; "I'm not that kind of a guy. It's only because I want to be a real friend, somebody you can rely on and come to when you're in trouble. It isn't as if I'd just met you. Of course, you don't know anything about me but what I've told you; but I did seem to know you. Your little brown shoes going by my window, one-two-three, like that, caught me. I built up all sorts of stories about you. Reading too much, probably. Anyhow, there you were, every day, rain or shine, except Saturdays and Sundays. I'm a lonesome dub myself. I've had to fight all along the way; and I guess my middle name is Trouble. When I don't hunt for it, they bring it to me on a platter."
"What is it you think I have done?" she asked, quietly.
"Honest, I don't know what I thought. Anyhow, I wasn't thinking of asking any questions. This morning I picked up one of those Baedekers, and I accidentally saw the name on the fly-leaf.
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