Spring had come.
On the bench in Union Square Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Kidd squirmed,
tongue-parched, awaiting D'Artagnan and his dollar.
"I wish I had choked her at first," said Mr. Peters to himself.
VII
WHILE THE AUTO WAITS
Promptly at the beginning of twilight, came again to that quiet
corner of that quiet, small park the girl in gray. She sat upon a
bench and read a book, for there was yet to come a half hour in which
print could be accomplished.
To repeat: Her dress was gray, and plain enough to mask its
impeccancy of style and fit. A large-meshed veil imprisoned her
turban hat and a face that shone through it with a calm and
unconscious beauty. She had come there at the same hour on the day
previous, and on the day before that; and there was one who knew it.
The young man who knew it hovered near, relying upon burnt sacrifices
to the great joss, Luck. His piety was rewarded, for, in turning a
page, her book slipped from her fingers and bounded from the bench a
full yard away.
The young man pounced upon it with instant avidity, returning it to
its owner with that air that seems to flourish in parks and public
places--a compound of gallantry and hope, tempered with respect
for the policeman on the beat. In a pleasant voice, he risked an
inconsequent remark upon the weather--that introductory topic
responsible for so much of the world's unhappiness--and stood poised
for a moment, awaiting his fate.
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