“That’s two apologies,” she said. “I accept both of them. Now, if you’ll tell me⸺”
“Yes, I’ll tell all,” he grinned, and they both laughed; neither knew why, exactly. There was something vibrating between them, something of an ethereal chord to which they were both attuned, something. . . .
“Won’t you sit down for a moment, and tell me about it?” She nodded to the divan. She sat down opposite him and he did as he was bidden.
“Why—why—er—the—fact is⸺” he started coherently.
“You can smoke if you want to,” she put in, seeing that he was ill at ease. He smiled his gratitude and lighted a cigarette, feeling more easy at once.
“You see,” he commenced, “I was in old Masterson’s store the other day when you—er—released some books to him.” She nodded.
“I remember,” she said. “I noticed you.” She had noticed him. Val could have shouted it from the housetops. Miracle of miracles—she had seen him—she knew that he was alive—she was conscious of Valentine Morley. “I noticed you.” Val was familiar with the poets, but at the moment he could not think of a poet who had ever lived who had written a sweeter line than that.
“Well, I rather took a fancy to the books,” he went on, “and I bought one of the bundles from Mat. That’s how I happened to know your name—it was in one of the books. You—er—know what happened at Masterson’s, don’t you?” He paused.
A look of absolute fright came into her eyes. Her white hand went to her throat again. He could see she was the victim of some wraith of fear that haunted her waking and her sleeping moments. It was not a
