I try?" demanded Sayre; "didn't I fish all the afternoon?"
"All I know about it is that you came back here last night with a farthest north story and no fish. You're an explorer, all right."
"Look here, Curtis! Don't you believe I saw her?"
"Sure. When I fall asleep I sometimes see the same kind – all winners, too."
"I was not asleep!"
"You said yourself that you were dead tired of waiting for a trout to become peevish and bite."
"I was. But I didn't fall asleep. I did see that girl. I watched her for several minutes… Breakfast's ready."
Langdon looked mournfully at the flapjacks. He picked up one which was only half scorched, buttered it, poured himself a cup of sickly coffee, and began to eat with an effort.
"You say," he began, "that you first noticed her when you were talking out loud to yourself to keep yourself awake?"
"While waiting for a trout to bite," said Sayre, swallowing a lump of food violently. "I was amusing myself by repeating aloud my poem, Amourette:
"Where is the girl of yesterday?
The kind that snuggled up?
In vain I walk along Broadway —
Where is the girl of yesterday,
Whose pretty – "
"All right! Go on with the facts!"
"Well, that's what I was repeating," said Sayre, tartly, "and it's as good verse as you can do!"
Langdon bit into another flapjack with resignation. Sayre swallowed a cup of coffee, dodging an immersed June-beetle.
"I was just repeating that poem aloud," he said, shuddering. "The woods were very still – except for the flies and mosquitoes; sunlight lay warm and golden on the mossy tree-trunks – "
"Cut it. You're not on space rates."
"I was trying to give you a picture of the scene – "
"You did; the local colour about the mosquitoes convinced me. Go on about the girl."
An obstinate expression hardened Sayre's face; the breeze stirred a lock on his handsome but prematurely bald forehead; he gazed menacingly at his companion through his gold pince-nez.
"I'll blue-pencil my own stuff," he said. "If you want to hear how it happened you'll listen to the literary part, too."
"Go on, then," said Langdon, sullenly.
"I will… The sunlight fell softly upon the trees of the ancient wood; bosky depths cast velvety shadows – "
"What is a bosky depth? What is boskiness? By heaven, I've waited years to ask; and now's my chance? You tell me what 'bosky' is, or – "
"Do you want to hear about that girl?"
"Yes, but – "
"Then you fill your face full of flapjack and shut up."
Langdon bit rabidly at a flapjack and beat the earth with his heels.
"The stream," continued Sayre, "purled." He coldly watched the literary effect upon Langdon, then went on:
"Now, there's enough descriptive colour to give you a proper mental picture. If you had left me alone I'd have finished it ten minutes ago. The rest moves with accelerated rhythm. It begins with the cracking of a stick in the forest. Hark! A sharp crack is – "
"Every bum novel begins that way."
"Well, the real thing did, too! And it startled me. How did I know what it might have been? It might have been a bear – "
"Or a cow."
"You talk," said Sayre angrily, "like William Dean Howells! Haven't you any romance in you?"
"Not what you call romance. Pass the flapjacks."
Sayre passed them.
"My attention," he said, "instantly became riveted upon the bushes. I strove to pierce them with a piercing glance. Suddenly – "
"Sure! 'Suddenly' always comes next."
"Suddenly the thicket stirred; the leaves were stealthily parted; and – "
"A naked savage in full war paint – "
"Naked nothing! A young girl in full war paint and a perfectly fitting gown stepped noiselessly out."
"Out of what? you gink!"
"The bushes, dammit! She held in her hand a curious contrivance which I could not absolutely identify. It might have been a hammock; it might have been a fish-net."
"Perhaps it was a combination," suggested Langdon cheerfully. "Good idea; she to help you catch a trout; you to help her sit in the hammock; afterward – "
Sayre, absorbed in retrospection, squatted beside the fire, a burnt flapjack suspended below his lips, which were slightly touched with a tenderly reminiscent smile.
"What are you smirking about now?" demanded Langdon.
"She was such a pretty girl," mused Sayre, dreamily.
"Did you sit in the hammock with her?"
"No, I didn't. I'm not sure it was a hammock. I don't know what it was. She remained in sight only a moment."
"Didn't you speak to her?"
"No… We just looked. She looked at me; I gazed at her. She was so unusually pretty, Curtis; and her grave, grey eyes seemed to meet mine and melt deep into me. Somehow – "
"In plainer terms," suggested Langdon, "she gave you the eye. What?"
"That's a peculiarly coarse observation."
"Then tell it your own way."
"I will. The sunlight fell softly upon the trees of the ancient wood – "
"Woodn't that bark you!" shouted Langdon, furious. "Go on with the dolly dialogue or I'll punch your head, you third-rate best seller!"
"But there was no dialogue, Curt. It began and ended in a duet of silence," he added sentimentally.
"Didn't you say anything? Didn't you try to make a date? Aren't you going to see her again?"
"I don't know. I am not sure what sweet occult telepathy might have passed between us, Curtis… Somehow I believe that all is not yet ended… Pass the pork!.. I like to think that somehow, some day, somewhere – "
"Stop that! You're ending it the way women end short stories in the thirty-five-centers. What I want to know is, why you think that your encounter with this girl has anything to do with our finding Reginald Willett."
There was a basin of warm water simmering on the ashes; Sayre used it as a finger-bowl, dried his hands on his shirt, lighted his pipe, and then slowly drew from his hip pocket a
