The Heart Line. Gelett Burgess

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      She thought it over for a moment, and apparently was pleased. "I'd like to dig some of them up," she said at last, turning to him, with the slow movement of her head that was characteristic of her.

      "Haven't you enough left?"

      She started to reply, but evidently decided not to say what she had intended, and let it drop there, her thought passing in a puzzling smile as she looked away again.

      He had laid his book beside him upon the bench, and, when her eyes came back, she took it up and looked at it. A glance inside showed it to be an old edition of Montaigne. She smiled, her eyes drifted to him with a hint of approval for his taste, then she turned her interest to the binding. As she fingered the leather, touching the tooled surfaces sensitively, her curiosity did not escape his sharp eyes, watching for anything that should be revelatory.

      She explained: "I have a technical interest in bindings. I do some of that work myself. It's curious that I happened to be at work to-day on an old copy of Montaigne. I'm rebinding it for my father's birthday. You'd never think my hands were of any practical use, would you?"

      He laughed. "Inconsistencies like that are what baffles one most, especially when one knows that most characters are inconsistent. But we professionals have to go by general rules. I should expect you to be an exception to all of them, though."

      He watched her surreptitiously, noting her diminishing color, the evasion of her glance, and the air of self-consciousness with which she spoke, as they talked for a while of obvious things—the weather, the view, and the picturesque, old-fashioned garden. She had taken the ring and had put it upon her finger, keeping her eyes on its turquoises. Her whole demeanor ministered to his vanity, already pleased by her frank welcome. He was used enough to women's interest and admiration for him to expect it and play upon it, but this was of a shyer and more elusive sort; it seemed to hold something more seriously considered, it baffled him, even as he enjoyed its unction. Besides all this, too, there was a secret romantic charm in the fact that they had shared together that vivid experience of the past. He came back for another draught of flattery.

      "It was odd that you expected me, wasn't it?" he said. "I can't help wondering about it."

      She had her eyes upon the Sausalito boat, which was weaving a trailing web of foam past Alcatraz Island. At his words, she turned to him with the same slow seriousness as before and replied:

      "I shouldn't think it would seem so remarkable to you, your own power is so much more wonderful."

      "Perhaps so in that one case, but you know I don't, ordinarily, claim clairvoyance. It's only occasionally, as the other day with you, that I attempt it."

      Her eyes awakened; she said earnestly, "Was I really able to bring that out in you?"

      He caught at the hint. "Why, what else could it be but your magnetism? It was the more strange because I had never seen you before."

      The glow faded, and she relaxed her nervous energy. "Ah, hadn't you? I wonder!"

      "Why, had you ever seen me before that day?"

      "I think so. At least you seem, somehow, familiar."

      "When was it, and where, then?"

      She seemed too puzzled to answer, or fatigued with following an intangible thread of thought. As she spoke, slowly, intensely, her hands made large, vague gestures, often pausing in mid air, as her voice paused, waiting for the proper word to come. "I don't know. It only seems as if I had been with you—or near you, or something—I don't know what. It's like a dream—or a story I can't quite recall, only—" she did not finish the sentence.

      He wondered what her game could be. Fundamentally cynical, though he never permitted it to show in his manner, he distrusted her claims to prevision. There was, after all, nothing in Miss Payson's words that might not be accounted for by what he knew of the wiles of feminine psychology. His training had taught him how much a baseless hint, injected at the proper moment, could accomplish in the masquerade of emotions and the crafty warfare of the sexes. That he and she had been actors together in a past uncomprehended scene, he regarded as a mere coincidence of which he had already made good use; he refused to connect it with her suggestive remark, for he was sure that she must have been unaware of his presence in Madam Grant's room that day, so long ago. It seemed to him more likely that, woman-fashion, she had shot into the air and had brought down an unsuspected quarry. And yet, even as a coincidence, he could not quite dismiss the strangeness of it from his mind.

      He was preparing to turn it to a sentimental advantage, when Clytie, who had relapsed into silence, suddenly aroused herself with one of those impulsive outbursts which were characteristic of her.

      "There is something about it all that is stranger still, I think!"

      Her golden brows had drawn together, separated by two vertical lines, as she gazed at him. Then with a little jet of fervor, she added:

      "I'm afraid I know too much about you, Mr. Granthope! It's somewhat embarrassing, really. It doesn't seem quite fair, you know."

      "I'm not quite sure that I understand."

      "Oh, you know! You must know!"

      He laughed. "Really, Miss Payson, it's very flattering, of course—"

      "Oh, no, it's not in the least flattering."

      "I wish you'd explain, then." He leaned back, folded his arms and waited indulgently. So long as he could keep the conversation personal, he was sure of being able to manage her, and further his own ends. It amused him.

      She busied herself with a lace handkerchief as she continued, in a low voice, as if she were ridding herself of a disagreeable task, and always with the slow, monotonous turning of her questing eyes toward him, and away. "Of course I've heard many things about you—you're a good deal talked about, you know; but it's not that at all—it's an instinctive knowledge I have about you. I can't explain it. It's a queer special feeling—almost as if, in some way, I had the right to know. That's why I wanted to see you again—I hoped you'd come. I wanted to tell you."

      "But all that certainly is flattering," he said. "I wouldn't be human if I weren't pleased to hear that you're interested, even if—"

      She could not help breaking into smiles again, as she interrupted him.

      "Oh, but I haven't told you yet."

      "Please do, then!"

      "It sounds so foolish when I say it—so priggish! But it's this: I don't at all approve of you. Why in the world should I care? I don't know. It isn't my business to reform you, if you need it." Now she had brought it out, she could not look at him.

      Curiously enough, though he had been amused at her assumption of a circumstantial knowledge of him, this hinted comprehension of his character, of the duplicity of his life, if it were that, impressed him with the existence in her mind of some quality as rare and mysterious as electricity, a real psychic gift, perhaps. It gave him an instant's pause. Instinctively he feared a more definite arraignment. He began a little more seriously, now, to match his cleverness against her intuition; and, for the first defense, he employed a move of masculine coquetry.

      "You have been thinking of me, then?"

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