faces his way and then for the space of a second their eyes meet.
"There is only one more selection, and it does not amount to much," Van Zandt tells Mrs. Harding, and they join the crowd that is leaving the garden.
"Do you know those two men who sat at the next table to us? The younger looked at you as though he knew you and was waiting to be recognized."
"Your imagination, cara mia. I know neither of them," replies Van Zandt, lightly. Then, as he hands her into a carriage at the corner and says "Kensington" to the driver, he holds Isabel's hand a moment at parting and inquires gravely: "So you are really going away then?"
"In two days," she answers, and searches his face for some evidence of regret. It is as impassive as the sphinx.
"Well, I suppose I shall see you at the French ball to-morrow evening?"
"You may, if you care to look for a Russian court lady, attired wholly in black."
"Rest assured that the festivities will be robed in sables until I find her. Good-night." Van Zandt closes the carriage door, watches it a moment as it rattles up the avenue and then saunters toward Broadway.
Ashley and Barker have remained at their table in the garden and Jack is telling the detective that for the second time within twenty-four hours he has caught the stare of the man with the brown beard and piercing eyes. "I have seen that face somewhere," he mutters, as he wrinkles his brow in a desperate effort to burst the memory cell that prisons the secret. Suddenly he smites the table a blow that sets the glasses jingling and invites the disapprobation of the waiter. "Oh, memory! Memory, thou sleepy, shiftless warder of the brain!" he cries.
"What is the matter now?" asks Barker.
"Keep calm, old chap," returns Ashley, gripping the detective's wrist. "Keep calm while I confess to you that we have let slip through our hands the key to the Hathaway mystery!"
