he belonged there—as though Jessica herself was, in some manner, his own. Could it be that he—but Val cast the thought aside. It was plain enough that Jessica loathed the man.
Well, he would learn something of all this to-morrow at dinner. He smiled as he gave himself over to reflections at what he would say to her and of what she would say to him. How she would smile at him tenderly with her eyes over the gleaming silver and shining white cloth of the dinner table at the Giltmore. He knew an alcove, somewhat away from the rest of the dining room, where they might have comparative privacy. That would be good. He could call up the Giltmore at once and reserve that table for to-morrow night.
His heart sang within him as he reflected on these matters. Here he was, young, in perfect health, beginning to enjoy life again, no financial worries of any kind except how to dispose of his abnormally large income—and now, into his life like a falling star shooting across the summer skies came Jessica Pomeroy with all her radiant beauty. And with her came mystery and adventure, murder and sudden death, messages from the dead and ten thousand dollar bills, engagements for dinner at seven thirty at the Giltmore, men with no hands . . . everything necessary, in fact, to feed the fires of romance and youth. Life was a fine proposition—there was no getting away from that. Poor old Mat Masterson!
The car swung around the comer into Fifth Avenue in its most exclusive part, and stopped at the door of the University Club. Eddie Hughes jumped off and opened the door, rousing Val from his reverie.
