XLII. AT SIX  

   

    

       BOOK I. AS SEEN BY TWO STRANGERS     

  

       I. POINSETTIAS     

       “A remarkable man!”      

       It was not my husband speaking, but some passerby. However, I looked up at George with a smile, and found him looking down at me with much the same humour. We had often spoken of the odd phrases one hears in the street, and how interesting it would be sometimes to hear a little more of the conversation.     

       “That’s a case in point,” he laughed, as he guided me through the crowd of theatre-goers which invariably block this part of Broadway at the hour of eight. “We shall never know whose eulogy we have just heard. ‘A remarkable man!’ There are not many of them.”      

       “No,” was my somewhat indifferent reply. It was a keen winter night and snow was packed upon the walks in a way to throw into sharp relief the figures of such pedestrians as happened to be walking alone. “But it seems to me that, so far as general appearance goes, the one in front answers your description most admirably.”      

       I pointed to a man hurrying around the corner just ahead of us.     

       “Yes, he’s remarkably well built. I noticed him when he came out of the Clermont.” This was a hotel we had just passed.     

       “But it’s not only that. It’s his height, his very striking features, his expression—” I stopped suddenly, gripping George’s arm convulsively in a surprise he appeared to share. We had turned the corner immediately behind the man of whom we were speaking and so had him still in full view.     

       “What’s he doing?” I asked, in a low whisper. We were only a few feet behind. “Look! look! don’t you call that curious?”      

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