IN A PIONEER RESTAURANT.
CHAPTER I.
There was probably no earthly reason why the "Poco Mas o Menos" Clubof San Francisco should have ever existed, or why its five harmless,indistinctive members should not have met and dined together as ordinaryindividuals. Still less was there any justification for the gratuitousopinion which obtained, that it was bold, bad, and brilliant. Lookingback upon it over a quarter of a century and half a globe, I confess Icannot recall a single witticism, audacity, or humorous characteristicthat belonged to it. Yet there was no doubt that we were thought to beextremely critical and satirical, and I am inclined to think wehonestly believed it. To take our seats on Wednesdays and Saturdays ata specially reserved table at the restaurant we patronized, to beconscious of being observed by the other guests, and of our waiterconfidentially imparting our fame to strangers behind the shaken-outfolds of a napkin, and of knowing that the faintest indication ofmerriment from our table thrilled the other guests with anticipatorysmiles, was, I am firmly convinced, all that we ever did to justify ourreputations. Nor, strictly speaking, were we remarkable as individuals;an assistant editor, a lawyer, a young army quartermaster, a bank clerkand a mining secretary--we could not separately challenge any specialsocial or literary distinction. Yet I am satisfied that the very nameof our Club--a common Spanish colloquialism, literally meaning "a littlemore or less," and adopted in Californian slang to express an unknownquantity--was supposed to be replete with deep and convulsing humor.
My impression is that our extravagant reputation, and, indeed, ourcontinued existence as a Club, was due solely to the proprietor of therestaurant and two of his waiters, and that we were actually "run"by them. When the suggestion of our meeting regularly there was firstbroached to the proprietor--a German of slow but deep emotions--hereceived it with a "So" of such impressive satisfaction that it mighthave been the beginning of our vainglory. From that moment he became atonce our patron and our devoted slave. To linger near our table once ortwice during dinner with an air of respectful vacuity,--as of one whoknew himself too well to be guilty of the presumption of attemptingto understand our brilliancy,--to wear a certain parental pride andunconsciousness in our fame, and yet to never go further in seeming tocomprehend it than to obligingly translate the name of the Club as "aleedle more and nod quide so much"--was to him sufficient happiness.That he ever experienced any business profit from the custom of theClub, or its advertisement, may be greatly doubted; on the contrary,that a few plain customers, nettled at our self-satisfaction, mighthave resented his favoritism seemed more probable. Equally vague,disinterested, and loyal was the attachment of the two waiters,--onean Italian, faintly reminiscent of better days and possibly superiorextraction; the other a rough but kindly Western man, who might havetaken this menial position from temporary stress of circumstances, yetwho continued in it from sheer dominance of habit and some feebleness ofwill. They both vied with each other to please us. It may have been theyconsidered their attendance upon a reputed intellectual company lessdegrading than ministering to the purely animal and silent wants ofthe average customers. It may have been that they were attracted byour general youthfulness. Indeed, I am inclined to think that theythemselves were much more distinctive and interesting than any membersof the Club, and it is to introduce THEM that I venture to recall somuch of its history.
A few months after our advent at the restaurant, one evening, JoeTallant, the mining secretary, one of our liveliest members, wasobserved to be awkward and distrait during dinner, forgetting even tooffer the usual gratuity to the Italian waiter who handed him his hat,although he stared at him with an imbecile smile. As we chanced to leavethe restaurant together, I was rallying him upon his abstraction, whento my surprise he said gravely: "Look here, one of two things has got tohappen: either we must change our restaurant or I'm going to resign."
"Why?"
"Well, to make matters clear, I'm obliged to tell you something thatin our business we usually keep a secret. About three weeks ago I hada notice to transfer twenty feet of Gold Hill to a fellow named'Tournelli.' Well, Tournelli happened to call for it himself, and whothe devil do you suppose Tournelli was? Why our Italian waiter. I wasregularly startled, and so was he. But business is business; so I passedhim over the stock and said nothing--nor did he--neither there nor here.Day before yesterday he had thirty feet more transferred to him, andsold out."
"Well?" I said impatiently.
"Well," repeated Tallant indignantly. "Gold Hill's worth six hundreddollars a foot. That's eighteen thousand dollars cash. And a man who'sgood enough for that much money is too good to wait upon me. Fancy a manwho could pay my whole year's salary with five feet of stock slinginghash to ME. Fancy YOU tipping him with a quarter!"
"But if HE don't mind it--and prefers to continue a waiter--why shouldYOU care? And WE'RE not supposed to know."
"That's just it," groaned Tallant. "That's just where the sell comes in.Think how he must chuckle over us! No, sir! There's nothing aristocraticabout me; but, by thunder, if I can't eat my dinner, and feel I am asgood as the man who waits on me, I'll resign from the Club."
After endeavoring to point out to him the folly of such a proceeding, Ifinally suggested that we should take the other members of our Club intoour confidence, and abide by their decision; to which he agreed. But, tohis chagrin, the others, far from participating in his delicacy, seemedto enjoy Tournelli's unexpected wealth with a vicarious satisfactionand increase of dignity as if we were personally responsible forit. Although it had been unanimously agreed that we should make noallusions, jocose or serious, to him, nor betray any knowledge of itbefore him, I am afraid our attitude at the next dinner was singularlyartificial. A nervous expectancy when he approached us, and a certainrestraint during his presence, a disposition to check any discussionof shares or "strikes" in mining lest he should think it personal, anavoidance of unnecessary or trifling "orders," and a singular patiencein awaiting their execution when given; a vague hovering betweensympathetic respect and the other extreme of indifferent bluntness inour requests, tended, I think, to make that meal far from exhilarating.Indeed, the unusual depression affected the unfortunate cause of it,who added to our confusion by increased solicitude of service and--as iffearful of some fault, or having incurred our disfavor--by a deprecatoryand exaggerated humility that in our sensitive state seemed like thekeenest irony. At last, evidently interpreting our constraint before himinto a desire to be alone, he retired to the door of a distant pantry,whence he surveyed us with dark and sorrowful Southern eyes. Tallant,who in this general embarrassment had been imperfectly served, and hadeaten nothing, here felt his grievance reach its climax, and in a suddenoutbreak of recklessness he roared out, "Hi, waiter--you, Tournelli. Hemay," he added, turning darkly to us, "buy up enough stock to controlthe board and dismiss ME; but, by thunder, if it costs me my place, I'mgoing to have some more chicken!"
It was probably this sensitiveness that kept us from questioning him,even indirectly, and perhaps led us into the wildest surmises. He wasacting secretly for a brotherhood or society of waiters; he was a silentpartner of his German employer; he was a disguised Italian stockbroker,gaining "points" from the unguarded conversation of "operating"customers; he was a political refugee with capital; he was a fugitiveSicilian bandit, investing his ill-gotten gains in California; he wasa dissipated young nobleman, following some amorous intrigue across theocean, and acting as his own Figaro or Leporello. I think a majority ofus favored the latter hypothesis, possibly because we were young, andhis appearance gave it color. His thin black mustaches and dark eyes,we felt, were Tuscan and aristocratic; at least, they were like thebaritone who played those parts, and HE ought to know. Yet nothing couldbe more exemplary and fastidious than his conduct towards the few ladyfrequenters of the "Poodle Dog" restaurant, who, I regret to say, werenot puritanically reserved or conventual in manner.
But an unexpected circumstance presently changed and divided ourinterest. It was alleged by Clay, the assi
stant editor, that enteringthe restaurant one evening he saw the back and tails of a coat thatseemed familiar to him half-filling a doorway leading to the restaurantkitchen. It was unmistakably the figure of one of our Club members,--theyoung lawyer,--Jack Manners. But what was he doing there? While theEditor was still gazing after him, he suddenly disappeared, as if someone had warned him that he was observed. As he did not reappear, whenTournelli entered from the kitchen a few moments later, the Editorcalled him and asked for his fellow-member. To his surprise the Italiananswered, with every appearance of truthfulness, that he had not seenMr. Manners at all! The Editor was staggered; but as he chanced, somehours later, to meet Manners, he playfully rallied him on his mysteriousconference with the Italian. Manners replied briefly that he had had nointerview whatever with Tournelli, and changed the subject quickly. Themystery--as we persisted in believing it--was heightened when anothermember deposed that he had seen "Tom," the Western waiter, coming fromManners's office. As Manners had volunteered no information of this, wefelt that we could not without indelicacy ask him if Tom was a client,or a messenger from Tournelli. The only result was that our Club dinnerwas even more constrained than before. Not only was "Tom" now investedwith a dark importance, but it was evident that the harmony of the Clubwas destroyed by these singular secret relations of two of its memberswith their employes.
It chanced that one morning, arriving from a delayed journey, I droppedinto the restaurant. It was that slack hour between the lingeringbreakfast and coming luncheon when the tables are partly stripped andunknown doors, opened for ventilation, reveal the distant kitchen, and amingled flavor of cold coffee-grounds and lukewarm soups hangs heavyon the air. To this cheerlessness was added a gusty rain without, thatfilmed the panes of the windows and doors, and veiled from the passer-bythe usual tempting display of snowy cloths and china.
As I seemed to be the only customer at that hour, I selected a table bythe window for distraction. Tom had taken my order; the other waiters,including Tournelli, were absent, with the exception of a solitaryGerman, who, in the interlude of perfunctory trifling with the casters,gazed at me with that abstracted irresponsibility which one waiterassumes towards another's customer. Even the proprietor had deserted hisdesk at the counter. It seemed to be a favorable opportunity to get someinformation from Tom.
But he anticipated me. When he had dealt a certain number of dishesaround me, as if they were cards and he was telling my fortune, heleaned over the table and said, with interrogating confidence:--
"I reckon you call that Mr. Manners of yours a good lawyer?"
We were very loyal to each other in the Club, and I replied withyouthful enthusiasm that he was considered one of the most promising atthe bar. And, remembering Tournelli, I added confidently that whoeverengaged him to look after their property interests had secured atreasure.
"But is he good in criminal cases--before a police court, for instance?"continued Tom.
I believed--I don't know on what grounds--that Manners was good ininsurance and admiralty law, and that he looked upon criminal practiceas low; but I answered briskly--though a trifle startled--that as acriminal lawyer he was perfect.
"He could advise a man, who had a row hanging on, how to steer clear ofbeing up for murder--eh?"
I trusted, with a desperate attempt at jocosity, that neither he norTournelli had been doing anything to require Manners's services in thatway.
"It would be too late, THEN," said Tom, coolly, "and ANYBODY could tella man what he ought to have done, or how to make the best of what hehad done; but the smart thing in a lawyer would be to give a chap pointsBEFOREHAND, and sorter tell him how far he could go, and yet keepinside the law. How he might goad a fellow to draw on him, and then plughim--eh?"
I looked up quickly. There was nothing in his ordinary, good-humored,but not very strong face to suggest that he himself was the subject ofthis hypothetical case. If he were speaking for Tournelli, the Italiancertainly was not to be congratulated on his ambassador's prudence; and,above all, Manners was to be warned of the interpretation which might beput upon his counsels, and disseminated thus publicly. As I was thinkingwhat to say, he moved away, but suddenly returned again.
"What made you think Tournelli had been up to anything?" he askedsharply.
"Nothing," I answered; "I only thought you and he, being friends"--
"You mean we're both waiters in the same restaurant. Well, I don't knowhim any better than I know that chap over there," pointing to the otherwaiter. "He's a Greaser or an Italian, and, I reckon, goes with hiskind."
Why had we not thought of this before? Nothing would be more naturalthan that the rich and imperious Tournelli should be exclusive, and haveno confidences with his enforced associates. And it was evident that Tomhad noticed it and was jealous.
"I suppose he's rather a swell, isn't he?" I suggested tentatively.
A faint smile passed over Tom's face. It was partly cynical and partlysuggestive of that amused toleration of our youthful credulity whichseemed to be a part of that discomposing patronage that everybodyextended to the Club. As he said nothing, I continued encouragingly:--
"Because a man's a waiter, it doesn't follow that he's always been one,or always will be."
"No," said Tom, abstractedly; "but it's about as good as anything elseto lie low and wait on." But here two customers entered, and heturned to them, leaving me in doubt whether to accept this as a verbalpleasantry or an admission. Only one thing seemed plain: I had certainlygained no information, and only added a darker mystery to his conferencewith Manners, which I determined I should ask Manners to explain.
I finished my meal in solitude. The rain was still beating drearilyagainst the windows with an occasional accession of impulse that seemedlike human impatience. Vague figures under dripping umbrellas, thathid their faces as if in premeditated disguise, hurried from the mainthoroughfare. A woman in a hooded waterproof like a domino, a Mexicanin a black serape, might have been stage conspirators hastening to arendezvous. The cavernous chill and odor which I had before noted ascoming from some sarcophagus of larder or oven, where "funeral bakedmeats" might have been kept in stock, began to oppress me. The hollowand fictitious domesticity of this common board had never before seemedso hopelessly displayed. And Tom, the waiter, his napkin twisted inhis hand and his face turned with a sudden dark abstraction towards thewindow, appeared to be really "lying low," and waiting for somethingoutside his avocation.
CHAPTER II.
The fact that Tom did not happen to be on duty at the next Club dinnergave me an opportunity to repeat his mysterious remark to Manners, andto jokingly warn that rising young lawyer against the indiscretion ofvague counsel. Manners, however, only shrugged his shoulders. "I don'tknow what he meant," he said carelessly; "but since he chooses to talkof his own affairs publicly, I don't mind saying that they are neithervery weighty nor very dangerous. It's only the old story: the usualmatrimonial infidelities that are mixed up with the Californianemigration. He leaves the regular wife behind,--fairly or unfairly, Ican't say. She gets tired waiting, after the usual style, and elopeswith somebody else. The Western Penelope isn't built for waiting. Butshe seems to have converted some of his property into cash when sheskipped from St. Louis, and that's where his chief concern comes in.That's what he wanted to see me for; that's why he inveigled me intothat infernal pantry of his one day to show me a plan of his property,as if that was any good."
He paused disgustedly. We all felt, I think, that Tom was some kind ofan impostor, claiming the sympathies of the Club on false pretenses.Nevertheless, the Quartermaster said, "Then you didn't do anything forhim--give him any advice, eh?"
"No; for the property's as much hers as his, and he hasn't got adivorce; and, as it's doubtful whether he didn't desert her first, hecan't get one. He was surprised," he added, with a grim smile, "when Itold him that he was obliged to support her, and was even liable forher debts. But people who are always talking of invoking the law knownothing about it." We were su
rprised too, although Manners was alwaysconvincing us, in some cheerful but discomposing way, that we were alldaily and hourly, in our simplest acts, making ourself responsiblefor all sorts of liabilities and actions, and even generally preparingourselves for arrest and imprisonment. The Quartermaster continuedlazily:--
"Then you didn't give him any points about shooting?"
"No; he doesn't even know the man she went off with. It was eighteenmonths ago, and I don't believe he'd even know her again if he mether. But, if he isn't much of a client, we shall miss him to-night asa waiter, for the place is getting full, and there are not enough toserve."
The restaurant was, indeed, unusually crowded that evening; the more sothat, the private rooms above being early occupied, some dinner partiesand exclusive couples had been obliged to content themselves with thepublic dining saloon. A small table nearest us, usually left vacant toinsure a certain seclusion to the Club, was arranged, with a deprecatoryapology from the proprietor, for one of those couples, a man andwoman. The man was a well-known speculator,--cool, yet reckless andpleasure-loving; the woman, good-looking, picturesquely attractive,self-conscious, and self-possessed. Our propinquity was evidentlyneither novel nor discomposing. As she settled her skirts in her place,her bright, dark eyes swept our table with a frank, almost childish,familiarity. The younger members of the Club quite unconsciously pulledup their collars and settled their neckties; the elders as unconsciouslyraised their voices slightly, and somewhat arranged their sentences.Alas! the simplicity and unaffectedness of the Club were again invaded.
Suddenly there was a crash, the breaking of glass, and an exclamation.Tournelli, no doubt disorganized by the unusual hurry, on his way to ourtable had dropped his tray, impartially distributed a plate ofasparagus over an adjoining table, and, flushed and nervous, yet withan affectation of studied calmness, was pouring the sauce into the youngQuartermaster's plate, in spite of his languid protests. At any othertime we would have laughed, but there was something in the exaggeratedagitation of the Italian that checked our mirth. Why should he be soupset by a trifling accident? He could afford to pay for the breakage;he would laugh at dismissal. Was it the sensitiveness of a refinednature, or--he was young and good-looking--was he disconcerted by thefact that our handsome neighbor had witnessed his awkwardness? But shewas not laughing, and, as far as I could see, was intently regarding thebill of fare.
"Waiter!" called her companion, hailing Tournelli. "Here!" The Italian,with a face now distinctly white, leaned over the table, adjusting theglasses, but did not reply.
"Waiter!" repeated the stranger, sharply. Tournelli's face twitched,then became set as a mask; but he did not move. The stranger leanedforward and pulled his apron from behind. Tournelli started withflashing eyes, and turned swiftly round. But the Quartermaster's handhad closed on his wrist.
"That's my knife, Tournelli."
The knife dropped from the Italian's fingers.
"Better see WHAT he wants. It may not be THAT," said the young officer,coolly but kindly.
Tournelli turned impatiently towards the stranger. We alone hadwitnessed this incident, and were watching him breathlessly. Yet whatbade fair a moment ago to be a tragedy, seemed now to halt grotesquely.For Tournelli, throwing open his linen jacket with a melodramaticgesture, tapped his breast, and with flashing eyes and suppressedaccents said, "Sare; you wantah me? Look--I am herre!"
The speculator leaned back in his chair in good-humored astonishment.The lady's black eyes, without looking at Tournelli, glanced backwardround the room, and slipped along our table, with half-defiantunconcern; and then she uttered a short hysterical laugh.
"Ah! ze lady--madame--ze signora--eh--she wantah me?" continuedTournelli, leaning on the table with compressed fingers, and glaring ather. "Perhaps SHE wantah Tournelli--eh?"
"Well, you might bring some with the soup," blandly replied her escort,who seemed to enjoy the Italian's excitement as a national eccentricity;"but hurry up and set the table, will you?"
Then followed, on the authority of the Editor, who understood Italian, asingular scene. Secure, apparently, in his belief that his language wasgenerally uncomprehended, Tournelli brought a decanter, and, settingit on the table, said, "Traitress!" in an intense whisper. Thiswas followed by the cruets, which he put down with the exclamation,"Perjured fiend!" Two glasses, placed on either side of her, carried theword "Apostate!" to her ear; and three knives and forks, rattlingmore than was necessary, and laid crosswise before her plate, wereaccompanied with "Tremble, wanton!" Then, as he pulled the tableclothstraight, and ostentatiously concealed a wine-stain with a clean napkin,scarcely whiter than his lips, he articulated under his breath: "Lethim beware! he goes not hence alive! I will slice his cravenheart--thus--and thou shalt see it." He turned quickly to a side tableand brought back a spoon. "And THIS is why I have not found you;"another spoon, "For THIS you have disappeared;" a purely perfunctorypolishing of her fork, "For HIM, bah!" an equally unnecessary wipingof her glass, "Blood of God!"--more wiping--"It will end! Yes"--generalwiping and a final flourish over the whole table with a napkin--"I go,but at the door I shall await you both."
She had not spoken yet, nor even lifted her eyes. When she didso, however, she raised them level with his, showed all her whiteteeth--they were small and cruel-looking--and said smilingly in his owndialect:--
"Thief!"
Tournelli halted, rigid.
"You're talking his lingo, eh?" said her escort good-humoredly.
"Yes."
"Well--tell him to bustle around and be a little livelier with thedinner, won't you? This is only skirmishing."
"You hear," she continued to Tournelli in a perfectly even voice; "orshall it be a policeman, and a charge of stealing?"
"Stealing!" gasped Tournelli. "YOU say stealing!"
"Yes--ten thousand dollars. You are well disguised here, my littlefellow; it is a good business--yours. Keep it while you can."
I think he would have sprung upon her there and then, but that theQuartermaster, who was nearest him, and had been intently watching hisface, made a scarcely perceptible movement as if ready to anticipatehim. He caught the officer's eye; caught, I think, in ours therevelation that he had been understood, drew back with a sidelong,sinuous movement, and disappeared in the passage to the kitchen.
I believe we all breathed more freely, although the situation was stillfull enough of impending possibilities to prevent peaceful enjoymentof our dinner. As the Editor finished his hurried translation, it wassuggested that we ought to warn the unsuspecting escort of Tournelli'sthreats. But it was pointed out that this would be betraying the woman,and that Jo Hays (her companion) was fully able to take care of himself."Besides," said the Editor, aggrievedly, "you fellows only think ofYOURSELVES, and you don't understand the first principles of journalism.Do you suppose I'm going to do anything to spoil a half-column of leadedbrevier copy--from an eye-witness, too? No; it's a square enough fightas it stands. We must look out for the woman, and not let Tournelli getan unfair drop on Hays. That is, if the whole thing isn't a bluff."
But the Italian did not return. Whether he had incontinently fled, orwas nursing his wrath in the kitchen, or already fulfilling his threatof waiting on the pavement outside the restaurant, we could not guess.Another waiter appeared with the dinners they had ordered. A momentarythrill of excitement passed over us at the possibility that Tournellihad poisoned their soup; but it presently lapsed, as we saw the couplepartaking of it comfortably, and chatting with apparent unconcern. Wasthe scene we had just witnessed only a piece of Southern exaggeration?Was the woman a creature devoid of nerves or feeling of any kind; or wasshe simply a consummate actress? Yet she was clearly not acting, forin the intervals of conversation, and even while talking, her dark eyeswandered carelessly around the room, with the easy self-confidence ofa pretty woman. We were beginning to talk of something else, when theEditor said suddenly, in a suppressed voice:
"Hullo! What's the matter now?"
The woman had
risen, and was hurriedly throwing her cloak over hershoulders. But it was HER face that was now ashen and agitated, and wecould see that her hands were trembling. Her escort was assisting her,but was evidently as astonished as ourselves. "Perhaps," he suggestedhopefully, "if you wait a minute it will pass off."
"No, no," she gasped, still hurriedly wrestling with her cloak. "Don'tyou see I'm suffocating here--I want air. You can follow!" She beganto move off, her face turned fixedly in the direction of the door. Weinstinctively looked there--perhaps for Tournelli. There was no one.Nevertheless, the Editor and Quartermaster had half-risen from theirseats.
"Helloo!" said Manners suddenly. "There's Tom just come in. Call him!"
Tom, evidently recalled from his brief furlough by the proprietor onaccount of the press of custom, had just made his appearance from thekitchen.
"Tom, where's Tournelli?" asked the Lawyer hurriedly, but following theretreating woman with his eyes.
"Skipped, they say. Somebody insulted him," said Tom curtly.
"You didn't see him hanging round outside, eh? Swearing vengeance?"asked the Editor.
"No," said Tom scornfully.
The woman had reached the door, and darted out of it as her escortpaused a moment at the counter to throw down a coin. Yet in that momentshe had hurried before him through the passage into the street. Iturned breathlessly to the window. For an instant her face, white as aphantom's, appeared pressed rigidly against the heavy plate-glass, hereyes staring with a horrible fascination back into the room--I evenimagined at us. Perhaps, as it was evident that Tournelli was not withher, she fancied he was still here; perhaps she had mistaken Tom forhim! However, her escort quickly rejoined her; their shadows passed thewindow together--they were gone.
Then a pistol-shot broke the quiet of the street.
The Editor and Quartermaster rose and ran to the door. Manners rosealso, but lingered long enough to whisper to me, "Don't lose sight ofTom," and followed them. But to my momentary surprise no one elsemoved. I had forgotten, in the previous excitement, that in those daysa pistol-shot was not unusual enough to attract attention. A few raisedtheir heads at the sound of running feet on the pavement, and theflitting of black shadows past the windows. Tom had not stirred, but,napkin in hand, and eyes fixed on vacancy, was standing, as I had seenhim once before, in an attitude of listless expectation.
In a few minutes Manners returned. I thought he glanced oddly at Tom,who was still lingering in attendance, and I even fancied he talked tous ostentatiously for his benefit. "Yes, it was a row of Tournelli's. Hewas waiting at the corner; had rushed at Hays with a knife, but had beenmet with a derringer-shot through his hat. The lady, who, it seems, wasonly a chance steamer acquaintance of Hays', thought the attack musthave been meant for HER, as she had recognized in the Italian a man whohad stolen from her divorced husband in the States, two years ago, andwas a fugitive from justice. At least that was the explanation given byHays, for the woman had fainted and been driven off to her hotel bythe Quartermaster, and Tournelli had escaped. But the Editor was on histrack. You didn't notice that lady, Tom, did you?"
Tom came out of an abstracted study, and said: "No, she had her back tome all the time."
Manners regarded him steadily for a moment without speaking, but in away that I could not help thinking was much more embarrassing to thebystanders than to him. When we rose to leave, as he placed his usualgratuity into Tom's hand, he said carelessly, "You might drop into myoffice to-morrow if you have anything to tell ME."
"I haven't," said Tom quietly.
"Then I may have something to tell YOU."
Tom nodded, and turned away to his duties. The Mining Secretary andmyself could scarcely wait to reach the street before we turned eagerlyon Manners.
"Well?"
"Well; the woman you saw was Tom's runaway wife, and Tournelli the manshe ran away with."
"And Tom knew it?"
"Can't say."
"And you mean to say that all this while Tom never suspected HIM, andeven did not recognize HER just now?"
Manners lifted his hat and passed his fingers through his hairmeditatively. "Ask me something easier, gentlemen."