THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
lazy house-cat suddenly transformed into a lord of the jungle. The ridiculous complacency of her previous attitude came home to her forcibly; and instantly she knew that William Grogan was become an integral part of her future. She was able to grasp this fact hazily. Strange are the inconsistencies of human nature. An hour ago he might have passed out of her life and left only a negligible ripple of regret behind. And now she wanted to hold this loyalty in hoops of steel.
As William stared into the dark, handsome face of his prisoner his heart seemed to drop down, down into some bottomless pit over which the winds played gipsy music. Gipsy music! He saw a quiet restaurant, a young woman in flight, a man in evening clothes pursuing, his own intervention. The smile on his face, however, did not waver.
"Well, Sir Hurlbert," he drawled, "we meet again!"
"Take your hands off my shoulders!" cried the stranger, angrily. There was something vaguely familiar about this truculent though smiling face so close to his own, but in that moment he could not recollect where he had seen it.
"Would you like 'em around your throat?" The bantering smile vanished. "You scum! If it wasn't for those cocked hats, I'd break every bone in your body! Can't leave 'em alone, no matter where you travel, can you? Listen. If you ever see me again, cross over to the other side of the street. That's all for this morning, m' lord."
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