swiftly along for half a block, then pause as if trying to recall the
street number; then trot a little farther, and stop to look back as if
the other party to his engagement might happen along from that
direction. It was a splendid bit of acting, and it deceived them all, in
that street of mutterers and hard faces. He was like one of them, busy
and hurried, but apparently cool, capable, and ominously alert. Only, in
his moments of indecision, his eyes shifted the least bit nervously, as
if to note whether the real fear he felt were detected, and then I could
read all his secret consternation.

"I'm the same lost dog, Nance. I feel as he felt every time I go into
that street where the poor creatures hurry and talk to themselves from
sheer nervous fatigue."

He ceased speaking, but she remained silent, fearing lest she say too
little or too much.

"Nance," he said presently with a slow, whimsical glance, "I'm beginning
to suspect that I'm even more of a fool than Hoover thought me--and he
was rather enthusiastic about it, I assure you!"

To which she at length answered musingly:

"If God makes us fools, doubtless he likes to have us thorough. Be a
great fool, Bernal. Don't be a small one."




CHAPTER XIV