THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"What is it?"
She pointed out to sea. William turned and saw the yacht Elsa boring southward down the blue Adriatic, serenely beautiful in the September sunshine.
"Forget it, sister. Things like that 'll happen anywhere. When a woman travels alone she's a hard row to hoe, believe me. But there's more good men than bad. Gee! if those cocked hats hadn't been in the way, I'd have whaled the daylights out of him. You can't talk to that kind. They're like hyenas; they don't understand petting. You have to beat 'em up. And now, you're not standing alone; Willie Grogan's in your corner."
He laid his big, warm hand over hers. It was the first time he had ever ventured to touch her in this fashion. She smiled faintly and withdrew her hand.
Presently, as her gaze wandered seaward again, this hand stole up unconsciously and rested where the little chamois bag lay hidden. Upon the observant William the act had the effect of a stab. Why hadn't they left him in his smelly cellar, among his drains and pipes and unspoiled dreams?
What was in that chamois bag? What lay in the past back of it? After all, had it been Ruth that night? Was he letting his imagination establish as fact something which had never happened? She might have met Colburton casually in New York, and he had taken advantage of it
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