The Shadow of the East | Page 4

the harbour.
A neighbouring yacht's band that had been silent for the last hour began
to play again--appropriately to the vicinity--Puccini's well-known opera.
The strains came subdued but clear across the water on the scent-laden
air. Craven sat forward in his chair, his heels on the ground, his hands
loosely clasped between his knees, whistling softly the Consul's solo in
the first act. From behind a cloud of cigar smoke Atherton watched him
keenly, and as he watched he was thinking rapidly. He was used to
making decisions quickly--he was accustomed to accepting risks at
which others shied, but the risk he was now contemplating meant the
taking of an unwarranted liberty that might be resented and might result
in the loss of a friendship that he valued. But he was going to take the
risk--as he had taken many another--he had known that from the first.
He screwed his eyeglass firmer into his eye, a characteristic gesture
well-known on the New York stock market.
"Ever see _Madame Butterfly_? he asked abruptly.
"Yes."
Atherton blew another big cloud of smoke.
"Damn fool, Pinkerton," he said gruffly, "Never could see the attraction
myself--dancing girls--almond eyes--and all that sort of thing."
Craven made no answer but his whistling stopped suddenly and the

knuckles of his clasped hands whitened. Atherton looked away quickly
and his eyeglass fell with a little tinkle against a waistcoat button.
There was another long pause. Finally the music died away and the
stillness was broken only by the soft slap-slap of the water against the
ship's side.
Atherton scowled at his immaculate deck shoes and then seized his
eyeglass again decisively.
"Say, Barry, you saved my life in the Rockies that trip and I guess a
fellow whose life you've saved has a pull on you no one else has.
Anyhow I'll chance it, and if I'm a damned interfering meddler it's up to
you to say so and I'll apologise--handsomely. Are you in a hole?"
Craven got up, walked away to the side of the yacht and leaning on the
rail stared down into the water. A solitary sampan was passing the
broad streak of moonlight and he watched it intently until it passed and
merged into the shadows beyond.
"I've been the usual fool," he said at last quietly.
"Oh, hell!" came softly from behind him. "Chuck it, Barry. Clear out
right now--with us. I'll put off sailing until tomorrow."
"I--can't."
Atherton rose and joined him, and for a moment his hand rested on the
younger man's shoulder.
"I'm sorry--dashed sorry," he murmured. "Gee!" he added with a half
shy, half humorous glance, wiping his forehead frankly, "I'd rather face
a grizzly than do that again. Leslie keeps telling me that my habit of
butting in will land me in the family vault before my time."
Craven smiled wryly.
"It's all right. I'm grateful--really. But I must hoe my own row."
The American swung irresolutely on his heels.

"That's so, that's so," he agreed reluctantly. "Oh damn it all," he burst
out, "have a drink!" and going back to the table he pounded in the
stopper of a soda-water-bottle savagely.
Craven laughed constrainedly as he tilted the whisky into a glass.
"Universal panacea," he said a little bitterly, "but it's not my method of
oblivion."
He put the peg tumbler down with a smothered sigh.
"I must be off, Jermyn. It's time you were getting under way. It's been
like the old days to have had a yarn with you again. Good luck and a
quick run home--you lucky devil."
Atherton walked with him to the head of the gangway and watched him
into the launch.
"We shall count on you for the Adirondacks in the summer," he called
out cheerily, leaning far over the rail.
Craven looked up with a smile and waved his hand, but did not answer
and the motor boat shot away toward the shore.
He landed on the big pier and lingered for a moment to watch the
launch speeding back to the yacht. Then he walked slowly down the
length of the stage and at the entrance found his rickshaw waiting. The
two men who were squatting on the ground leaped up at his approach
and one hurriedly lit a great dragon-painted paper lantern while the
other held out a light dustcoat. Craven tossed it into the rickshaw and
silently pointing toward the north, climbed in. He leaned back and lit a
cigarette. The men sprang away in a quick dog-trot along the Bund, and
then started to climb the hillside at the back of the town. They wound
slowly up the narrow tortuous roads, past numberless villas, hung with
lights, from which voices floated out into the quiet air.
The moon was brilliant and the night wonderfully light, but Craven
paid