THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
dipped his hand into his pocket and laid the fragments of the photograph on the marble-topped table. "I found these pieces in the waste-basket at the Bristol." He began arranging the pieces as he talked. "Didn't know what it was at first. I was waiting for you, and I put 'em together like one of those old picture-puzzles. Remember 'em? Well, I got some little old jolt, believe me. Can you step around to this side?"
Curiously she rose and came to his side, looking down over his shoulder.
"Where did you get that?" she asked, in a low, tense voice.
"I told you; in the waste-basket. I was dead sure you hadn't thrown it there. And you didn't tear it up?"
"No." Her hand slid from his shoulder.
"Thought not. There's something on the back." Carefully he reversed the pieces. "See? Will you tell Brother Bill if there's anything serious?"
She leaned down and scrutinized the writing. What color there was in her cheeks slowly faded and her eyes became dull. "I don't understand," she said.
"Well, the way I take it, some one is looking for you. Remember, I said I'd never ask you any questions, but that if you ever needed me you'd call me."
"I haven't forgotten," listlessly.
"Do you want this?"
"No. Throw it away." Her gesture was like a shudder.
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